


There Are No Rules In War (Except The First)

by Redring91



Series: Broken Rules and Consequences [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (TV Movie 1996)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Asexual Character, Asexual Doctor (Doctor Who), Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Genderfluid Time Lords, Genocide, Has the Time War been mentioned lately?, Memory Alteration, Multiple Selves, Names are important to Time Lords, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Regeneration, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Time Lords only call The Doctor when they want help, Time Travel complicates things, Time War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 18:21:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 79,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2783048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redring91/pseuds/Redring91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The call to War sounds out across the universe, rippling throughout all of time and space. The renegades and the exiles are summonsed back home. All of them return to Gallifrey immediately – all but the two most dangerous Time Lords.</p><p>The battle is heralded as The Last of The Great Time Wars, more devastating than any war which has or ever will occur. The decision is made swiftly: it is unaffordable to be constrained by Rules during the War. And so, for the first time since the Dark Days, the Time Lords utterly discard each and every one of the Laws of Time…all, except for one.</p><p>The very First Rule, the most important Law of all, is now the only Rule that remains. Even with Time itself burning, it is still forbidden to meet your other selves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seventh Regeneration hurts the most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have not read the first piece in this series – The First Rule – I strongly recommend you do so, as this segment follows on from that. To everyone else, welcome back! I hope you enjoy this one as much as the last. Feedback is always encouraged.
> 
> While the ‘canon compliant’ tag is still applicable, advance warning: I have taken liberties both with my interpretation of The Movie – in order to fit that story into the wider series-canon – and also the events of The War – as a lot of that period is not shown in episode-canon. So if you are attached to the ‘half-human’ subplot of The Movie story arc, I apologise.
> 
> Also, in regard to the relationship tags: the appearance of Missy in recent canon (*dances gleefully*) does not really affect my overall portrayal of the Doctor-Master relationship, but it does help. The lack of slash tag has had more to do with the physicality shown in episode-canon, so continue to ship-or-not at your own discretion.
> 
> And finally, a reminder: Time Lords are conscious and self-aware the entire time during their ‘deaths’ and subsequent regenerations. This chapter may be intense for that reason.
> 
> -

-24-

The TARDIS is quiet. It has been quiet for a long time now and he cannot remember the last time he actually emerged from within it. He is on his own, but he has managed to find some semblance of security in his solitude, having shouldered it for so long. It’s not that he enjoys it. (He doesn’t.) He’s merely…tolerating his situation.

(He ignores the sense that this is a false calm before an approaching storm.)

The High Council of the Time Lords have been wary since his last encounter with them and have subsequently left him alone. (They fear him, they always have. He knows this.) But when he receives their news regarding The Master’s capture and execution by the Daleks, he does not think twice about responding.

(It is neither his loneliness, nor his melancholy for home, nor his grief and helpless rage at his old friend’s death that drives him into immediate action; because if it was any of these things, he would be in far greater trouble than he is prepared to admit.)

The report from the Council states that The Master had been held for an ‘indeterminate period of Time’ on Skaro, put on trial for his crimes against the Daleks. Before the Daleks had – rather emphatically – exterminated him, The Master requested that The Doctor take his remains back to Gallifrey. The Daleks (fearing the retribution that he would undoubtedly seek if they attempted to withhold his old friend’s body) had agreed to these terms. A call on where to locate the corpse had been put out to the High Council.

(The remains are precisely where they had been promised to be. His hands shake as he places what is left of his friend into a small casket, struggling against the urge to either retch or sob.)

The Council, he knows, are unnerved because The Master has been killed and despite the fact that the man has officially exhausted all of his regenerations, there are grave concerns that the Daleks have been the ones to finally bring an end to The Master of Death. (There are whispered fears about what the Daleks may have learnt about killing a Time Lord.) The High Council demand he returns The Master’s body so they can run a complete examination and discover precisely what his extermination had entailed. (They always want to be sure that The Master is truly dead at last.)

He does not trust the Daleks – he does not believe they captured The Master merely to execute him.

He does not trust the Time Lords – he does not believe they have been honest with him about what they know regarding the incident and what they have planned for The Master (and for him) upon their return.

And he does NOT trust The Master – he does not believe that his old friend is ever truly helpless, even in death.

But he sets a course for Gallifrey regardless.

-

The record he is playing sticks on ‘time, time, time, time,’ but it is not until his tea trembles that his suspicion turns to alarm. The Master, as it turns out, is not so helpless after all. (Sometimes, he hates being right.) Time jumps within the TARDIS as there is an attempted hijack and the console goes mad. Just what is The Master trying to do?!

The TARDIS shudders, drops through Time as safeguards instantly affect an emergency landing. This will have thrown the man, he thinks with satisfaction as he searches for traces of The Master. These safeguards are relatively new and of his own design. (They were implemented under the harnessed rage of his previous self, who was determined never to be caught out by the High Council again: the TARDIS won’t be going anyway near Gallifrey, willing or not, for the foreseeable future.) And without power, The Master’s options will be limited; the navigation and control systems lock themselves onto Earth as the TARDIS lands. He knows he must find The Master immediately.

He steps out of the TARDIS, sees the humans with their guns and has just enough time to think ‘oh’ before the bullets fly. They tear into his body effortlessly; his leg, twice, and his shoulder. Too close to one of his hearts. He finds himself on the ground. He hates guns.

He’s in pain. There is something squeezing his brain and he seems to have too many appendages, because the number of limbs that he should have couldn’t possibly contain this much pain within them. This hurts almost as much as being alone does.

But he’s not alone, he notices abruptly. There’s a boy beside him, saying something, but he doesn’t have time to take solace in this because he sees the essence of what remains of The Master forcing its way out of the TARDIS keyhole. He manages to voice a semi-coherent warning to the boy, but the pain swallows him back up before he can do anything else.

There is a blur of noise. Sirens, he thinks, as he focuses on the shock spreading through his system. Everything hurts. Bullets are truly devastating inventions. Has he ever been shot before? He cannot remember. He does not want to remember. There are more important things to remember than how he’s been killed in the past; smaller and more beautiful things, like carrot juice and cans of Nitro 9 and pasta bake and cups of tea.

(The most precious things to remember are the others that he has been: the grandfather and the scientist; the scarf and the jacket; the numbers and the music.)

He can hear music.

“Puccini.” He identifies it instinctively. “Madame Butterfly.”

The smell of his surroundings indicates sterile medical procedures and that frightens him into consciousness too soon. He knows his body needs more time to recover, or repair itself, or prepare for regeneration if he’s dying, and – 

He’s dying. The realisation closes his throat with dread. (He does not want to die! His other selves are out there, somewhere in Time, and HE has not met them. They do not know him and, Rules be damned, he wants them too! But now he will never know them.) He’s dying!

There is a woman, standing over him with surgical implements. (Echoes of old fears scream in his mind. They are humans, they will open his chest, see the truth of his hearts and they will dissect him. Humans fear that which is different.) He catches her wrist, tries to warn her, tries to beg her to stop. If they interfere with his body now, while he is dying, he does not know what impact that will have upon his regeneration. (He does not know what it will do to his next self.)

He has been exceptionally skilled at manipulating people during this incarnation, but his body is dying and his mannerisms with it. He cannot dig deep enough to find the words he needs to change their minds for them.

“I’m not human,” he cries in desperation, trying to arc away from the mask they slip over his mouth. “I’m not human,” but he knows that he’s doomed whether they do or don’t believe him.

The woman says they’re going to fix the wild beating of his heart – but it’s supposed to be like that; he has TWO of them – please, please don’t do this!

(Faces flash across his mind: Mel, Ace, The Brigadier, The Master.) “The Master!” (He tugs the memories of his past six selves as close as he can, folds himself greedily around them as he slides into oblivion and the void of his loneliness is far more bearable than it has ever been. He drags his past with him as he starts to fade.)

The last thing he sees is the bright eyes of the woman who is fruitlessly attempting to save him. She is going to kill him.

-

Pain is everywhere. There is something in his chest that doesn’t belong there. Electrical shocks arc through his body – “clear,” he can hear them shouting – and he feels his very cells tearing him apart.

He’s dying. He’s dying. And this is the only thing that he knows.

-

This is death.

(He remains there for a while.)

-

He knows when death becomes not-death.

(Not-death, he knows, is called life. So he’s alive.)

Further awareness comes slowly. It’s cold. (But he’s not dead anymore…?) Residual electrical static flits across his body as his cells shift, reassembling. It’s painful. (But death was numb, so he’s NOT dead anymore.) It’s dark. But he’s not dead anymore, so it shouldn’t be.

He opens his eyes.

(He’s alive.) It’s not dark anymore, not numb, and he’s definitely not dead. But it is still cold. Wherever he is, it’s cold, and he wants out. He shoves at the least-coldest barrier surrounding him, striking firmly until it gives way: it’s a door and it opens. He moves forward slowly.

There is someone else in front of him; a person that is not him. The person falls down, but not into death, so it must be okay. He clings to the fragile white shield he is draped in and continues walking, moving in a blur as he hums to himself. His body seems to be fine now, despite being dead before.

(Before…?)

Tick, tick, tick, tick, he hears. A clock. Clocks tell time. Time…is important to him. Just like life. And he is alive. But, if he is alive…then who is he?

He startles as he sees a face reflected back at him out of dozens of mirrors; a wide-eyed and frightened man who knows nothing beyond death and not-death. This is his body and yet he does not know it. “Who am I?” Why does it feel natural to look at his reflection and not recognise his own face?

“WHO…AM…I?” 

-

He searches for answers within his mind but finds none. He searches his surroundings instead. He finds fabrics that he thinks will shield him better than the sheet he has and dresses himself in them. He does not know who he is. So, until he can remember (surely, he will remember), he must look after himself the best he can.

-

As other people arrive he knows that he is not like them, even if he doesn’t remember why. (Perhaps it’s because he knows death and they do not.) He stays quiet and small, listens to the babble of words spoken around him and is comforted by the fact that they are words he knows. (Perhaps there is more of himself to be found, somewhere inside him.)

He drowns in the blankness of his thoughts, his lack of memory and sense of self, until an individual voice weaves its way into the fog that envelops him. He peers towards the source. It’s familiar, which means he must have a memory of it somewhere.

He catches sight of the woman’s face briefly and another image is transposed on top of his vision: surgical mask and implements. Is this a memory perhaps? But when he blinks, both the vision and the woman are gone.

As he twists around to search for her, his eyes latch onto a clock. “Time…” He watches as the clock ticks over from seven to eight. (From…Seven…to…Eight.)

(Eight…Eight…Eight…Eight…Eight.)

He smiles, without knowing why. (Eight.)

-

He catches sight of her again, follows her this time. He stands close enough to her to focus on her bright eyes because he is sure that he remembers them. She looks at him strangely, so this behaviour must not be common amongst people who are not like him.

“Puccini!” He whispers. (His voice is strange. It feels somehow foreign, even though this is the only way he can remember it sounding. He takes some comfort from the fact that his body seems to understand what has happened to him, even if his mind is lost.) “We’ve met before,” he tells the woman. “You’re tired of life but afraid of dying.”

(Was ‘before’ always such a big word? Or does it only become so when it is paired with ‘after,’ when death lies between the two?)

“There was music,” (--music--) he insists desperately as she moves away from him, “Madame Butterfly!” He is frightened and adrift but she was there, in the time that was ‘before.’ She might be able to help him. She had wanted to help him, before. “You must help me. You’re a doctor!”

(The word sends shivers of longing and loss through his soul. Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor, Doctor…)

Pain lances through him and he panics when he notices that it has a physical cause. “It’s my hearts!” He grapples at his chest, catches the thin wire he finds protruding there and pulls. He stares at the splash of his blood against his pale skin. “I have two hearts,” he says and realises suddenly that this is not normal for the people he is currently amongst. 

(If they find out he is different, alien to them, they will become hostile; he knows this without knowing how. Imaginings filled with operating theatres, blood, death and dissection dance across his mind.)

He meets the woman’s horrified gaze with one of his own. “You have to get me out of here before they kill me again! Please you have to help me!” (He does not wish to return to death.) He raises his voice, commands her to DRIVE, and relief floods him when she does.

-

Grace, she says her name is, and she asks him for his. All he can do is shake his head helplessly because he doesn’t remember having one.

-

As they reach her place of abode, he finds he has calmed considerably and appears to have (physically) stabilised. Despite having no sense of personal context, he feels that his ability for perception has incredible potential. (Even if he is saying so himself and is making this judgement in spite of his lack of memory.) He merely looks at Grace and finds he can discern things about her.

Grace asks about his well-being and his response is matter-of-fact: of course he is improved without the primitive wiring in his system. “Primitive?” She repeats mockingly, half-incredulously and somewhat offended, but he does not refute his assessment. He is different from all these other people; he can sense it with his very being. If he says they are primitive compared to him, he means it, and merely as a statement of truth.

She tells him to open his shirt, wanting to listen to his heart. “Hearts,” he corrects her as he smiles, “plural.” He follows her as he tries again to search for some memories. He doesn’t understand how he came to be left with nothing, before this.

“Maybe you have selective amnesia, brought on by shock.”

“Maybe.” (There were electrical shocks, he thinks, racing through him when death became not-death. Were there shocks before death too? It is not…clear.) “I can’t remember.”

It’s soothing, having Grace listen to his hearts, knowing that someone else is aware of his pulse, that he’s not…dead. He didn’t like being dead. He much prefers life. It has more to give.

Da Vinci. Puccini. He pulls forth memories that go with these words, but he cannot find HIMSELF within these memories. Why not? Where is he? There is nothing where his sense of self should be.

He is distracted by Grace’s emphasis as she declares, “you have TWO hearts!” She gapes. “Who ARE you?”

…He doesn’t know. That’s sort of the problem here. But she is clever and has been kind, so he tries to find an answer to give her regardless. “The anaesthetic almost destroyed the regeneration process.” Regeneration. The word feels comfortable on his tongue, it echoes around his mind. That’s what happened: he regenerated.

She draws his attention back as she stands, her words sending a jolt of panic through him: “I’m going to get a syringe; I’m going to take some blood–”

“No, no! Grace, Grace, Grace…” But he cannot find words to articulate his fear of living through vivisection, so he says instead, “I have thirteen lives,” and realises this is another fact he is familiar and comfortable with.

But she doesn’t seem convinced by his assurance. “The dead stay dead. You can’t turn back time.”

“Yes, you can.” He is absurdly pleased. Time flows forward and backwards and you can travel through it as easily as you can through space, provided you understand the relative dimensions involved. He knows this!

But now he’s upset her, because she’s no longer smiling. “Only children believe that crap. I…am a Doctor.”

(Is he a child then, for believing? No, he thinks. Not when all these other people seem so young to him. His body may be young, but his eyes are older than that. His soul is older than that.)

“But it was a childish dream that made you a doctor.” He points out before she walks away. You made yourself a promise, he thinks, when you were a child. You chose to become a ‘Doctor’ and swore that you would hold to this promise. “Don’t be sad, Grace.” He doesn’t want her to be sad. 

But this doesn’t explain why HE feels like crying.

-

Thirteen lives, he muses, and he regenerates when he is taken by death. He’s done this before; that’s why his body knows even when his mind has forgotten. (Is he always left without memories?) He stares at the numbers (--numbers--) on the clock, his eyes catching on the sharply angled seven and he frowns. He wonders how many times he has died.

-

When Grace returns, he very quietly offers her some of his blood. 

He shivers when she begins to inspect it under a microscope, but he reassures himself that he trusts her with it.

-

The more she examines his blood, the more perplexed she becomes. She mutters under her breath about being a doctor, not a scientist (--scientist--), though he does not see why one has to preclude the other. He observes without comment for the most part, more interested in the shoes she has given him. They fit, he is pleased to notice. He seems to actually be managing all right, even without the knowledge of who he is.

“It’s not blood.” Grace decides finally. “Let’s go for a walk.”

He agrees amicably. The air is cool as they step out into the night. He wonders idly whether he should have brought a jacket (--jacket--) or a scarf (--scarf--) along as he peers up at the stars. They wink back down at him conspiratorially.

“Maybe you’re the result of some weird genetic experiment.” Grace suggests with a lack-lustre sigh.

“I don’t think so.” He’s different from her and the others. But this is normal for him.

“You have no recollection of your family?”

“No. No…” A family? A child; a father; a mother? A grandmother; a grandfather? (--Grandfather--) “Wait, wait, wait.” He had been a child once, small and quiet. He concentrates. “I remember…I’m with my father, lying back on the grass on a warm Gallifreyan night.” That steep incline had been the best place on Gallifrey to see the stars from. “Gallifrey! Yes! This must be where I live. Now where is that?”

“I’ve never heard of it.” Grace is torn between curiosity and astonishment. “What do you remember?”

“A meteor storm! The sky above us was dancing with lights!” Sparks burst and swirl across his memory and he feels lighter than air. He has REMEMBERED something about himself. He grasps lightly at the memory and basks in it.

-

He is overwhelmed by a sudden sense of urgency. “Something’s happening,” he gasps, “something’s happening.” Grace clutches at his arms, her eyes wide with concern.

Whispers trickle into his thoughts from the back of his mind, and then self-awareness EXPLODES within him.

(“I am The Doctor. The original, you might say; but it is far from being all over.”--“No, you can’t do this to me!”--“I had to face my fear.”--“The moment has been prepared for.”--“Feels different this time.”--“I was about to be sentenced, I believe.”--“Puccini. Madame Butterfly; The Master!”--“Who am I?”)

“I KNOW who I am!” He shouts, with a broad grin. Ecstatic, he pulls Grace close and presses his mouth to hers, sharing his joy, his laughter with her and then spins her around. “I. Am. The Doctor!”

“Good!” She cries happily. Pauses. “Now do that again.”

He complies, letting her taste his happiness once more. Until he feels a whisper in his mind that is definitely NOT his OWN. But it IS a mind that he is very familiar with. He pulls back away from Grace, staggers out of her reach.

“The Master is here!” He clutches at the tendril that connects them and understanding blossoms across his thoughts: the man is out of lives and must obtain more, has decided to steal the rest of his. “He’s planning to take my body. So that he will live and I will die!” The sense of the other man begins to slip away from him, as intangible as smoke. Where is The Master, physically? Impressions flash before him. “He’s opened the Eye of Harmony!” He feels an echo of his own vision and shuts his eyes frantically, trying not to think about Grace, not to project an image of her face back along the psychic connection. “The power source at the heart of the TARDIS; my ship that carries me through Time and Space. T-A-R-D-I-S, it stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space.” 

(The breath leaves his lungs. He had forgotten about the TARDIS. HOW could he have FORGOTTEN about his TARDIS?!)

He starts to panic and he can feel Grace panic too, her fear and distrust throttling him and he doesn’t know how to fix this, but now the entire Earth is at stake. The Eye of Harmony will destroy the planet if he doesn’t stop The Master. “I need an atomic clock.” He pleads. “Help me find one!”

But she pulls away from him and he feels the whole world wrench out from under him. “Grace?” He opens his eyes and watches her flee. “Grace!” She’s running away from him. She’s AFRAID of him.

Something inside him cracks painfully. Whatever it is, it is powerful enough to sever the link between him and The Master. He breathes around this uncomfortably jagged sensation in his chest, does his best to ignore it, and chases after Grace.

-

As he runs – even though he is glad to remember that he has always been running throughout his other lives – he decides that this entire mess is the fault of his previous self. He remembers the man that he had been, dying, selfishly hording all of their memories to himself. (Clinging to them, not wanting to be alone in death; but abandoning HIM as a result.) His jaw clenches angrily. (But he does not want anger either: anger belonged to another.) And all of the other selves who came before that, what good have they done him? He had been left with nothing when he awoke – no memories of any of the Doctors he has been. And he has done just FINE so far without them!

He is The Doctor. He is Eight, but he is independent and secure in his individuality. He doesn’t have to rely on any of them to function.

So, for the first time in his multiple lives, he takes the newly recovered echoes of his past selves – all distinguishable essences that linger as a result of his temporal transgressions – and deliberately encases them BEHIND his memories, shoving their tangle away from the forefront of conscious thought. It is a laughably simple feat to accomplish. They are his past, and they are dead to him.

Without the ghosts of their presences brushing his thoughts, he continues running.

-

“Grace, please let me in.”

Her refusal is angry, hysterical, and frustration creeps up on him. (He is being abandoned AGAIN.) The Master is going to destroy the planet. He doesn’t have time for this.

He sets his hand against the glass, shouts to Grace that he can PROVE what he is saying is true. He pushes against it and it does not take much for the molecular instability to give. He presses through it, letting the glass ripple around him until he is standing on the other side of it and inside the living room. Grace stares at him, ashen faced.

“By midnight tonight, this planet will be pulled inside out.”

He does not need to look at the clock in the room to know that it is already nine. And as he stands there, he ignores the fear that churns within him at the recollection that he has long found it difficult to count from Eight to Nine.

-

He feels helpless as he watches the human’s news program. Grace’s smile is fake and it hurts more than he thought it would. She continues to peer out of the blinds, waiting for the ambulance to arrive so she can take him away to a psychiatric ward. How can he be expected to save the planet if he cannot even make a case for himself? But then the newsreaders start talking of a clock and his hopes rise. That’s where he needs to go.

Grace unlatches the front door and he stares at the man standing on her doorstep. He is wearing dark shades and his posture commands attention. His lips are curled up ever so slightly into what could be classed as a smile; if the joke involves carnivorous hunters and you are the punchline.

(He knows who this man is instantly.)

He steps forward, places himself into the man’s space without a care. “We need to go straight to the Institute of Technological Advancement and Research. Do you know where that is?” And he moves just as casually out of the man’s space, striding confidently towards the vehicle.

His best weapon for the moment is ignorance, because it will be believed. After all, how often has he not recognised this man in the past?

-

Unfortunately, his plan of pretending to be ignorant falls apart rather quickly. He is partway through a furious back-and-forth rant with Grace, trying to make her see reason, when the ambulance jerks and The Master’s shades slide off his face. Their eyes meet and neither of them can help holding the other’s gaze.

The Master deliberately replaces his glasses but the damage has been done. They both know that the other knows. So he does the only thing he can do. “The planet is about to be destroyed and I’m stuck in a traffic jam?!” He leans forward and nicks the glasses back off The Master’s face. “Excuse me.”

Grace sees the man’s glowing non-terrestrial eyes and screams. The Master spits venom – actual venom, what on earth had happened to his last body to put him in this state?! – and Grace keeps screaming as the flesh on her arm blisters. He expends the contents of a fire extinguisher over most of the van’s interior (though more on The Master, which was just as satisfying as he had anticipated), before corralling her out onto the streets.

He finds a policeman, with a bike. He distracts the officer with a jelly baby (and how slighted it makes him feel, that he had eaten them, stashed them, and it had done NOTHING for his memories) and then proceeds to steal the man’s gun.

“Now would you stand aside before I shoot myself.” 

He presses the muzzle into his chest. The weight of the gun in his hands is familiar and disturbing and horrible, and having it nestled between his hearts compresses everything within him tightly. He inhales slowly and tastes death in the air. He wonders how far he could go, for the sake of life.

The officer’s face drains in horror and he spares whatever he can manage to pity the man for being a victim of circumstance. (This man will be killed in three years in the line of duty, he perceives abruptly. He will save the lives of two young hostages and will remember this moment as he bleeds out, recalling the strange Englishman who was willing to die for his belief in life.) He forces his attention back to Grace. “I came back to life before your eyes. I held back death.” She stares at him helplessly. “Look, I can’t make your dream come true forever, but I can make it come true today!”

She makes a decision. “Give me the gun.”

He surrenders it regardless of whether or not she believes him. He does not want it in his hands any longer.

She shoots out the communications on the bike and then demands the officer’s keys. He hears the wail of ambulance sirens cut through the air. The Master is giving chase. He starts up the bike and sets off so abruptly that Grace drops the gun. (Good. Guns are horrible. He doesn’t want her to hang onto it.) It doesn’t take him long to leave The Master behind.

-

They arrive at the Institute and he scowls when Grace spots the ambulance. He knows the man is nearby but he does not spot The Master amongst the crowd. He is uneasy. (Wherever he turns, he can perceive their timelines; can see where death shadows their Time. He sees alcohol poisoning, car accidents, illnesses, murder, suicide and old age; so much old age he feels he is choking on it. Humans have such short lives. And yet they are still children to him, even when they are ‘old’ in their own terms.) He sticks close to Grace’s side as they meander their way across the room.

“Why don’t you have the ability to transform yourself into another species?”

He suspects she means aesthetically; humans are obsessed with appearances. “Well I do, you see, but only when I die.” Cosmetic differences are a natural part of regeneration – appearance, gender, personality; these things change. Assuming a non-humanoid form, like The Master had, requires great conscious effort though. Actually re-writing biology is different altogether: you don’t have to be dying for that. But then, you wouldn’t be a Time Lord anymore either.

Grace asks about The Master, he explains how the man has already burnt through his lives. “In the fight for survival there are no rules.” As the words leave his mouth, as he reflects on the fact that rules have never meant much to The Master, he is struck with an epiphany. Rules. The Rules of Time, of course, that’s what this is about!

He pulls her to a halt. “Grace, if I tell you a secret, you must promise not to tell.”

But before he can tell her, a Professor Wagg interrupts them. The man refuses to let him near to the clock and asks about his big secret. He draws the man close and in the most serious tone he can manage replies: “I’m half-human. On my mother’s side.” 

(It was such an innocuous joke when they had been young; his old friend expressing puzzlement over his fascination with the primitive little earthlings. “You must be half-human, to be so fond of them,” The Master used to say. “Yes,” he’d reply with a grin, “on my mother’s side.” And they’d both laugh. But it has grown to mean so much more over the years. Tonight it is a declaration of loyalty to this adopted planet of his and a determination to do what he must to ensure its safety.)

He lets the professor leave before dangling the keys he just nicked from him at Grace. He lets the moment they had almost shared pass, deciding not to bring up the Rules after all.

-

It’s difficult to break into the clock without his screwdriver, but he manages it. He pulls the beryllium chip out and reveals it to Grace. “See? I told you it was small.”

“What is it they say?” Her lips curl up in amusement.

He smiles back, thinking of a police box that is smaller on the outside and bigger on the inside. “They say that on my planet too.”

As they make their way out Grace catches sight of the boy who had taken his things after he had died, and then he spots The Master. He and Grace are quick to flee but he knows that the man has seen him. Nothing blazes quite like The Master’s stare and he can feel his skin prickling beneath the force of it.

-

He nearly falls to his knees and weeps with delight when he sees the TARDIS. How could he have forgotten her, forgotten how beautiful she was? (All of his previous regenerations, bar one, have taken place in or beside the TARDIS and that other regeneration had been difficult too. He wonders whether the TARDIS has been easing his way through them in the past. But even though she had not been there for him when he first awoke, at least she is here for him now.) He’s home.

He explains to Grace about the ‘police box’ motif as he unlocks the door. “I like it like this.” He touches the blue wood reverently. But his joy dries up when he steps inside and hears the cloister bell toiling. “The TARDIS is dying.” You can’t, he thinks frantically as he runs his hands over the console, searching for answers, not now, not after all we’ve been through together. (Not after they have just found each other again.)

He is so focused on the TARDIS that he doesn’t pay much mind to the fact that Grace is suddenly talking about inter-dimensional transference and spacial displacement. He is about to question her when he realises he’s not going to be able to contain all of the temporal energy leaking from the Eye. But there may be a chance to redistribute the energy instead, disperse it across time rather than space. “We have to go back to before the Eye was opened, maybe even before we arrived.”

“This is a time machine!”

“With no power!” He wracks his brains. “Are you any good at setting alarm clocks?”

“No.”

He wants to groan in frustration but begins explaining his plan to jump-start the TARDIS instead. He feeds her instructions until she suddenly stops responding to him. “Grace?” He pulls himself back out from under the console. “Grace?” Her eyes are black, he notices dimly, as she strikes him across the face with something solid.

His world goes as dark as her eyes have become.

-

When he comes to, her eyes are still black and he is strapped into a gurney. “Oh no,” he breathes, his hearts sinking in despair. “Oh, not you, Grace.”

The kid who stole his things is there too, offering a cocky spiel on how everything is about to belong to The Master again. “Again?!” He repeats. “What’s he been telling you?” He is NOT property! He squirms against his restraints, but they don’t give.

“When he gets his body back from you, I’m going to be rich!” The boy crows smugly.

“And you BELIEVE him?” But despite his indignation, he is somewhat reassured that an attempt is going to be made to kill him; he knows death, he is confident he can continue to hold back death. 

(He can remember the last time The Master stole a body and is abruptly grateful that he isn’t being cruelly subjected to the kindness of another Tremas this time around.)

The Master makes his way down the stairs towards them. He’s wearing Gallifreyan robes now, rich colours with fancy trimmings, and he hates the man for looking so much like he had the day they had both received their cosmic science degrees. Will everyone hold that business against him?!

“I never liked this planet, Doctor.”

And oh, how it stings, that the first time the man addresses him by name is to say something like that. “Well, that’s good, because any minute now it’ll cease to exist!” He shouts, and tells himself he is talking only about the planet. (If the man is so eager to send him back into death, then he’s not going to care about the fragile remnants of their friendship.) “What’s the time?!”

The Master ignores this query and instead begins to lavish praises on the thief-boy. “Lee is the son I have always yearned for.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” He jerks at his bonds again and rolls his eyes. When I get out of here, he thinks viciously in the direction of his…just HIM, I am going to hurt you.

The Master ignores this too (the egotistical irritant that he is) and instructs Grace to begin. She presses the hideous contraption over his face, forcing his eyes open, and shackles him up. “In seven hundred years,” he snarls at The Master, “no one has opened the Eye. How did you do it?”

“Simple.” The Master shrugs. “Lee is human. You are only half.”

He can’t even move his head, so the urge to thump it against a wall is rather redundant. He decides to ignore the ‘you-value-human-lives-over-your-own-so-do-not-interfere-or-I-will-kill-the-boy’ that is being relayed and ponders his own question. Whatever The Master had done to the TARDIS during the earlier hijack and then later (while HE was dying and dead and regenerating) must have shaken the old girl up pretty badly. While she knows better than to let The Master into the Eye under any circumstances, the TARDIS likes humans as much as he does. In her vulnerable state, she let Lee in willingly.

And once open, it WOULD have been simple enough for The Master to seize control and establish the link he needed to prepare for this transference. After all, the Eye IS Harmony and they have both broken the same Rule of Time.

He shouts, his voice the only thing he is still free to use, and is satisfied to find he can still strike this Master where he is most vulnerable, where it most hurts.

“What do you know of last chances?” The Master hisses in outrage.

“More than YOU!” He yells back.

“I have wasted all my lives because of YOU, Doctor!” The Master sneers. “Now I’ll be rid of you.”

If this is how you want it to be, he thinks coolly. “ALL your lives?!” His voice rebounds around the room emphatically but his accusation is louder: why has it taken so long for you to correct this mistake then?

The Master demands Lee open the Eye, and Lee refuses. The Master smiles benevolently up at him before turning to Lee, taking the boy’s face in his hands.

The Master snaps Lee’s neck.

He screams in outrage and grief as The Master tosses the boy’s body aside. (He feels the shiver that runs through the boy’s timeline as his moment of death shifts into the here and now.) But he has no time to mourn the child and keeps his focus on The Master. “How will you open the Eye now?”

“Grace. Come here.”

It won’t work, not with Grace possessed the way she is. Her black eyes are not human. So it won’t work. But The Master seals his mouth over hers and draws the venom he had placed in her system back out. When The Master pulls back, Grace reels, and even though he cannot see her face from his vantage point he KNOWS that her eyes are shining brightly again.

The Master shoves Grace towards the Eye and he yells desperately to her, begging her to close her eyes, but it’s too late.

The power of the Eye of Harmony jolts into him and he cannot pull away. He feels The Master take his position and the Eye links them together. He ignores the feel of the other man against his mind, ignores the temporal pulsation that is beginning to spread throughout the room and shouts down to Grace, reminding her about their plan to re-route the console power.

“But you’ll die if I leave you!”

“We’ll ALL die if you don’t! RUN! Run, Grace!” And thank whatever deity that may exist, she does.

Time begins to crack around them, folds between them. The planet is being compressed beneath the pressure wrought by the temporal reality of the Rule that binds the two of them together. He fights for everything he is worth, refusing to give any ground to The Master. But the longer he struggles, the higher the risk that the strain the Eye is subjecting him to will kill his current body.

“I’m taking your lives, Doctor!”

(For a moment, dark and bitter, he wonders WHY he is doing this. What does he owe his potential future selves? He was cast aside by the selves who had come before him when he needed them most. Does he not have the right to defend his own life? Should he not protect himself and surrender his future regenerations willingly in order to spare his current existence?)

“I can hear your thoughts, Doctor! I can feel your memories!”

Can he indeed? This must be the case because he has become aware of The Master’s thoughts too. The Master is anticipating victory now, (aware of his ruminations about his other selves,) assured that this act of cruelty will disrupt the Harmony enough for the Eye to sever them, at which point The Master shall retain all the regenerations that were surrendered to him.

.....................

Very well then. If cruelty will cause the Eye to release them, then he shall be cruel.

His first thought is of Tremas and The Master understands precisely what he is about to do. The man’s momentary spike of alarm gives him the opening he needs to begin flooding them both with memories.

(Tremas is fascinating – a kindred spirit unlooked for; a man of science, sharp instinct and clever wit. And in all honesty, he knows that Tremas had always been merely a facet of The Master. He and The Master are sundered by death and betrayal and violence, but they cannot remain apart. When he is exiled and condemned to linear time The Master appears, uninterested in destroying or conquering the Earth, and he hopes that this means the man has come for his sake. When he is caught by the High Council and persecuted by a shadow of his future, The Master rescues him and he hopes that this means the man still cares. Even now, with the knowledge that “killing you once was never enough,” he knows he will never stop caring about his friend. He cannot help himself; he is prepared to forgive The Master for whatever the man may put him through.)

He drowns the man in affection and promise. He FEELS The Master spasm and recoil beneath the intensity of their shared memories. When The Master flinches away from him, from the cruelty of his kindness, they are released from the Eye but not from each other. His attention is caught by the temporal waves surrounding the Earth; he senses them splintering as the Eye widens, a vacuum waiting to be filled. Have his efforts come too late?

“This cannot be how it ends!” (Has he sacrificed the Earth for the sake of his regenerations, for the lives of his future selves? If so, he will never forgive himself.) “Stop this. Please. STOP!”

And then…Time stops.

-

They are both frozen between one breath and the next as Time holds itself still. On the other side of this moment there is an explosion as the earth is torn apart by Time. They exist in this moment within the essence of their current incarnations: The Doctor knows death and held it back; The Master craves life and stole his way back into it.

Their minds are still linked together and he is overwhelmed by the memories of The Master’s deaths. The first is agonising. (If only because he has to witness the look that he himself had been wearing as he watched The Master die.) Much of the others blur together in a whirlwind of blood and torture and murder. Tremas is a heartbreakingly welcome change of pace. (But then there is an echo of Tremas himself and that is even worse because The Master’s feelings when he had been that man had been very real.) The latest – torture and execution by the Daleks – is sharp with its recency. The Master clings stubbornly to existence as his body breaks beneath him, languishes in semi-consciousness as his husk of flesh is left for dead, and then slowly slips towards an end at last. Only to be rudely interrupted by a hand on his face and familiar eyes fixing on his soul.

(Something about the man in The Master’s memory derails his focus: he knows the man [“because you will remember”] but he cannot remember who he is.)

But despite the dose of regeneration energy he has been plied with, what is left of The Master’s form continues to die. He commandeers a human as a host body and that body begins to fail as well. And now, here they both are.

(He is peripherally aware of The Master’s future deaths too, but he cannot focus on the details of them: they are all hidden behind a wall of fire and pain that BURNS when he tries to see them. But the horror of them steals his breath because it feels like there are HUNDREDS of deaths yet to come and he prays that he is mistaken.)

And then they both sense it, projected out from the Eye of Harmony. There is a void that lies BEHIND Time, an Event fast approaching, already in motion. Unescapable, unavoidable, calling to them both. And it is BURNING. They are nearly consumed by it, and would have been if Time was entirely stagnant around them. But within this frozen moment, there is a small pocket of Time still turning.

“Think alarm clock,” they can hear Grace saying. “Temporal orbit? What’s a temporal orbit?!”

And then…Time unwinds.

-

Travelling back down along your own timeline is technically ‘bending’ the Laws of Time, not ‘breaking’ them, provided that your own personal history is not altered as a result. Nevertheless, both of them are struck hard with the temporal backlash.

Or rather, they both SHOULD have been. It takes him a moment to work out that nothing is happening to HIM. (He is unsure whether this is a benefit of over exposure, the sheer quantity of his transgressions, or simply because he has silenced the echoes of his other selves. He doesn’t really care; he benefits either way.) The Master, with only the one experience, twice over, struggles to hold himself together.

“Your life force is dying, Master.” (And he wonders suddenly; if he saw The Master’s deaths during the Time stoppage, what had The Master seen of his life?)

Then Grace is in front of him, breaking the link between the two Time Lords as she begins to release him, but he can barely hear her words over the howl of loss that reverberates within his mind. (Is it his own? Or is it The Master’s? Or is it a memory drawn out from either of their pasts?) He realises too late that The Master has moved. He watches in horror as the man throws Grace over the balcony, he hears the sickening sound her body makes as it shatters beneath her.

“GRACE!”

(He tries not to remember the time that death had come to him from a fall and a broken body.)

He swings around and kicks The Master savagely in the chest, pulls himself out of his restraints. He runs down to her, to this human woman who tried to save him, killed him, and then saved him again anyway. He chokes on her name and wonders why this is his lot in life.

The Master roars and lunges for him. “You are my life!” The man kicks him once, twice, then wrenches him up and slams him back against the lip of the Eye, which is still pulsing behind them.

“You want dominion over the living.” He claws at The Master. “Yet all you do is kill.”

“Life is wasted on the living!”

He manages to get a leg up and kicks the man back. When The Master dives at him again, he twists the sceptre and uses the Eye’s own light to blind the man. The Master jumps too far, grapples and clings to the sceptre while dangling precariously close to the Eye’s power. He staggers to his feet, staring at the man; death is written all over The Master.

(For a moment, he hesitates, and they both know it.)

But then he reaches out. “Give me your hand!”

“Never!” The Master snarls immediately. Then the sceptre crumbles and The Master falls, sucked deep into the Eye’s power. “DOCTOR!”

There is nothing he can do now to stop it, and they both know that as well. (He refuses to hate himself for this; he blames The Master instead.) He forces himself to watch as the Eye of Harmony consumes The Master, re-sealing the void that had been opened.

Then everything is still.

-

He places Grace and Lee down peacefully beside one another, contemplates their bodies. (What good is it to know death if he cannot save any other life but his own?) There must be something he can do…

(He thinks long and hard about the Rules of Time, about what is permitted and what is not. He wonders, once more, what he may be capable of doing in the name of life.)

There is a glow from within the Eye and he braces himself, preparing for more death and destruction. But the soft light that is expelled is only regeneration energy, focused and concentrated. It hovers above the bodies of the humans, fills them, and he waits uncertainly.

(If the TARDIS is channelling his own regeneration energy internally, into this moment, it must mean that she opens the Eye for another human, in Time. He cannot help but wonder why she would risk such a thing.)

Because Time is still unwinding, because the Rules are already being bent, the regeneration energy does exactly what it’s supposed to: it retains the essence of their souls, repairs the damage done to their bodies. Humans cannot regenerate as Time Lords do; instead their past is transposed over their current bodies, restoring life in their present to give them a future.

[“I bring life.”]

And Grace breathes. Lee stirs.

(He inhales slowly and is glad that he spared his future selves after all, because one of their regenerations has/will give him this moment.)

“Hello, Grace.” He says softly. “Well, how does it feel…to hold back death?”

(Both humans have kept their memories of the events that occurred during the time that has now been unwound – all of their memories except for death; because now, thanks to the TARDIS, they have not died at all.)

She sits up and wraps her arms around him. He holds her tightly, until he hears the Eye closing again and pulls back to survey the result. “What a sentimental old thing this TARDIS is.” (And though he is grateful here and now, he knows that there will be consequences for this transgression. There are always consequences for such things.)

-

“So…where’s The Master?”

He considers how to answer this question in terms that these linear humans will comprehend. But the TARDIS makes a rather pointed noise and he settles for “indigestion.” It’s an easier explanation anyway.

(“I’ll be rid of you,” the man had said. But he doesn’t know whether even this will allow them to leave the other alone. Time will tell, he supposes.)

He shows them both Gallifrey on the star map, allows himself to bask in old memories for a moment. But he doesn’t even entertain the notion of returning to the planet now. Instead, he sends the TARDIS back to Earth, just as the Year Nineteen Ninety-Nine ticks over into the Year Two Thousand.

He is pleased when Lee returns his things (most importantly, his sonic screwdriver and TARDIS key) without prompting, and he lets the boy keep the gold The Master offered him. (He is still cruel enough to have The Master keep his promises, even if the man himself refuses to.)

“Lee!” He calls after the boy as he leaves. “Next Christmas, take a vacation. Just don’t be here.” (If the boy is here at that time, death will take him. But if he is not, death will wait, and the impact on his timeline is negligible. This is an interference that he CAN make without consequence.) Lee thanks him agreeably and then he’s gone.

He turns to Grace, but she smiles. “Don’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“I know who I am. And that’s enough.”

(Yes, he thinks. I am The Doctor. And that is enough for ME. Who I was, or will be, does not concern me. It is enough that I – I – am The Doctor.)

“I’m glad.” He returns her smile, but then his whole chest aches because he knows what she’s going to say to his offer before he speaks. “Come with me.”

Sure enough, she shakes her head. But then she says, “you come with me.”

“ME come with YOU?”

“Yes!”

He looks out at the fireworks. “It’s tempting,” he admits softly. He suspects that he could have been content to share a linear life with Grace, had he never regained his memories. But as himself, knowing who he is, he knows that he would not be able to bear it now. He is The Doctor, a Time Lord, a wanderer in the fourth dimension, an old man travelling the stars in his blue box. He loves time and space too much to give them up.

“I’m going to miss you.” Grace says eventually.

He doesn’t know what to do with this information. “I’m easy to find, I’m the guy with two hearts.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He stops and looks at her. Then he leans forward and kisses her mouth chastely, gently, and hopes that this communicates to her what he means better than his words did. From her smile, he thinks it has worked.

(He does not ask her to come with him again. When they had first met, she was tired of life and afraid of dying. He has shown her that death does not have to be feared to be conquered, and there is always more for life to give. She believes that he has already given her more than enough already and he respects her conviction; is humbled by it.)

Her eyes shine brightly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“No, thank YOU, doctor!” He turns and hops back up to his TARDIS. He offers Grace one last smile before he slips inside and away. Back off into time and space where he belongs. And he is ready to discover what life has to offer him.

“Right where to next?”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! *collapses into a heap*
> 
> I hope that my rendition of the Movie was sufficiently enjoyable to kick-start the War for you. But as the summary states, our Rule Breaking Boys are late to the party. There’s more to come before we get there.
> 
> Another disclaimer for the relationship tags – while this chapter does contain Eight/Grace, I didn’t feel the need to tag it since it was so brief, and the relationships that I have tagged take up most of the emotional space in this segment anyway.
> 
> Have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from Doctor Who episodes including; Doctor Who: The Movie (1991); as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge. 
> 
> -


	2. The Eighth Regeneration hurts the most

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that this chapter was long in coming; hopefully the length of it makes up for that. I anticipate this to be a recurring theme for the rest of the Time War as well.
> 
> For those of you who prefer not to ship The Doctor and The Master, feel free to ignore all of the subtext ahead.
> 
> I think the real hero of this chapter is The Brigadier. His scenes all hurt to write and I hope they hurt you all to read.
> 
> -

-25-

The scope of his perception, in this body, is simply incomparable. His thoughts come with a greater clarity than they ever have before, his memories unencumbered (untainted) by old biases. (There are no longer any echoes from his past selves to trouble him.) He revels in this. And it allows him more headspace with which to manage his instinct for death. It is…unnerving, at times, to perceive the steady tick of the lives that surround him. It is worse when he forgets himself and slips up, accidently disclosing details of when, or how, someone’s time will end.

Humans especially do not take this knowledge well, whether they believe him or not.

-

He offers invitations occasionally for people to travel with him. It does not take him long to decide, each time, that doing so is a mistake. (It is too hard to bear, to grow close to someone while the shadow of their death lies ever present between them.) Besides, he does not really need the company; he is proud of his independence. He is content to smile and laugh and befriend the people who flit through his adventures, but eventually he stops welcoming them into his TARDIS.

He enjoys the peace of the TARDIS. It is a sanctuary tucked away from the bustle of all those lives, speeding towards their ends. (They are all so young. The lives of linear beings are so fleeting. So much death, everywhere he looks, people shackled with their own inevitable demise.) Within the temporal grace of the TARDIS he can breathe, he can enjoy the simplicity of life without it being lost beneath the cacophony of death.

He (unlike his predecessor) does not idle away the time he spends within the TARDIS. He understands her systems better now than he ever has – something he attributes gleefully to his increased perception – and dedicates most of his hours to higher-end maintenance. He repairs the damage she suffered in the wake of The Master’s latest interference and makes improvements to the existing fortifications that were implemented in the past. He also adds several new ones of his OWN design (which are far superior to all of the ones already in place).

He gives a long, measured look at the chameleon circuit before throwing his head back to laugh. “Don’t worry, old girl.” He sets his hand on the wall, tenderly. “You never have to change for me, or anyone else. Keep yourself exactly as you want to be.”

The engines hum warmly in response.

-

The call to War sounds out across the universe, rippling throughout all of time and space. The renegades and the exiles are summonsed back home.

He is in the TARDIS, mid-flight, when it happens. He is not ashamed that he screams, folding to his knees beneath the weight of the directive. He digs his fingers in his hair, eyes wide and unseeing. (All there is to see is death.)

The TARDIS engines shriek in protest and defiance – but she does not even shudder when she comes to a halt. And that is when they both realise that she has done this herself. The vortex contracts weakly around them but they are not pulled back to Gallifrey, despite the command of the Council. They do not move at all. The safeguards HOLD.

There is a long moment of stillness. Satisfaction unfurls within his chest. After centuries of running, of political trials and betrayals, after spending so long being delegated the summons-boy and the scapegoat, it has come to this. At last, he is no longer subject to their whims. The simple fact of the matter is this: the High Council cannot recall him.

(He is not only satisfied; he is smug. Yes, he is well pleased to achieve this victory. But despite all of the others who had been before – the knowledge and wisdom, the anger and rage – it is HIM who has achieved this. HIM, alone.)

And then, the Time War begins.

He feels it – the flames of War spreading across the higher temporal plane serving as the battleground. Time itself has begun to burn. He can taste the resulting ashes in the back of his throat. The universe is coated with the shadow of death; it is a thin film that clings to the skin of reality. Death, death, death, death, death, death, death, DEATH – 

(But this death is not cold, it is not dark and it is not numb. This death BURNS brightly with the fire of War. If this death takes hold, EVERYTHING will BURN.)

He dry retches as he scrambles to his feet. (You’re safe, he tells himself, you are safe. They cannot reach you anymore. They cannot catch you and drag you back, cannot USE you for any of this. You are safe. This death has no claim over you. But no matter what he tells himself, his hearts do not stop racing.) The heat of that fire has scorched the very words from his mouth, but thankfully the TARDIS doesn’t need him to talk in order to know what is wrong. She takes flight again, hurtling AWAY from Gallifrey, heading for Earth.

The TARDIS has barely materialised before he is out the door and sprinting down the drive. He cannot breathe. He collides with the front door of the house and begins to pummel on it, feeling the night close in around him. When he hears movement approaching from the inside, he remembers how to draw in oxygen and uses it to shout.

“Brigadier!”

The opening door reveals Doris.

“Oh.” He feels himself trembling, shaking, but he cannot stop no matter how hard he tries. “Sorry.”

Her husband appears at her side before she can speak. He is armed, of course, the cold metal glinting beneath the light of the porch. The sight of the weapon makes him choke. He doesn’t realise he is clawing at his own chest (tearing at his lungs, at his hearts) until The Brigadier reaches out to catch his hands and draw them back.

“Doctor?” 

The man sounds concerned. But then, he probably has reason to; he has just been woken up in the early hours of the morning by an old friend with a (presumably) new face attempting to break down his door in the midst of a panic attack.

He’s not entirely sure how he gets from the porch to the lounge room. As The Brigadier manoeuvres him gently to sit on a couch, he catches sight of a photo on the mantle place; Ancelyn, standing proudly beside a dragon shaped hedge.

(“For prosperity,” he had laughed as he snapped the photo, basking in Ancelyn’s triumphant smile and The Brigadier’s hand on his shoulder.)

A glass is pressed into his hands. The brandy warms his throat without burning it, and this warmth is stronger than the heat that has been chasing him. His breathing evens out.

“Sorry.” He offers sheepishly.

The Brigadier does not even bother to chastise him for the pointless and redundant apology. He simply sits in the chair opposite with a glass of his own. “What’s happened, Doctor?” And then, more carefully, “what’s wrong?”

He clings to the glass like a lifeline, pressing it against his chest, between his hearts. The coolness of the glass leeches through his shirt. He closes his eyes and forces the words to rise up and pass his lips. “The Time Lords have gone to War.” He swallows. “With the Daleks.”

“Ah.” There is a heavy silence, but with his eyes still closed he doesn’t know what expression has arranged itself on his friend’s face. “I see.”

He keeps his eyes shut. The dark is a comfort. (Death is always dark and cold, and not…that. The manner of death is irrelevant; even cremation ends in cold darkness. Death is numb. It does not burn. It does not BURN.) “A Time War.” He murmurs, shuddering. “THE Time War, because neither side know mercy. They will burn each other up on the planes of Time.” This is fact. He knows this; he knows death, even this unnatural form of it. He exhales unsteadily. “I do apologise for the intrusion. Only it was a bit overwhelming to process it all at first.” It is easier now, far easier to ignore those flickering embers, while he is out here in linear time.

“You are always welcome, Doctor.”

He opens his eyes at this and smiles. The Brigadier returns it, though the concern in his eyes does not diminish. The unspoken acknowledgement sits between them: that out of all of time and space, The Doctor had come here, to see The Brigadier. (Of course he has. This man is the one linear constant in his life. Where else would he be able to go?) They let this silence fill the space for a while.

Eventually The Brigadier speaks again. “So, they’ve demanded your return, I take it.”

“They have.” He tucks his feet up beneath him and curls in on himself. He aches, he’s tired and he feels nauseated. “But they cannot force me, not this time. I’m beyond their reach now. This time, I have a choice.”

(And perhaps this is what frightens him the most.)

“And your choice is?”

He inhales deeply. He thinks of all his dealings with Gallifrey and the Council since he left in his TARDIS. He considers the evil of the Daleks (and the Time Lords), now removed to that higher temporal plane and away from the majority of the universe. He remembers the cold embrace of death, the way it should always be. He inhales again.

No. He will have nothing to do with this. He will not.

“This is not my War. This is theirs; centuries in the making. Too long they’ve used me to fight their battles for them. Well, this time, I refuse.”

There is no judgement on The Brigadier’s face, and there is no inflection in his tone when he responds. “Staying out of the battle won’t prevent the war from existing.”

“Don’t say that as if I don’t understand war.” He glares. “I have ALWAYS understood war.”

(On Gallifrey, it had never been deemed a ‘war.’ A temporal dispute, they classified it, disorder brought on by minor civil unrest. Not a ‘war,’ because it had not impacted the normalcy of Gallifrey. Not a ‘war,’ because it had only involved a handful of misfits and outcasts, struggling against spectres and changelings within a severed temporal plane on the other side of the universe. Not a ‘war,’ because in the end The Trickster was defeated, the Pantheon of Discord was banished, and as a result the war had never reached Gallifrey. A ‘temporal conflict,’ it was referred to throughout the universe by those who had knowledge of it. But never had it been called a war, even though it served the purpose of one.)

(There had been five of them, taking up arms against an entire army, for the sake of Gallifrey. They had broken rules and regulations, they had interfered. They had all driven themselves to the edge of their limits and beyond. Blood had been spilled; there was murder and death and regeneration. They had won. They had learnt much of war. They had lost even more.)

(And Gallifrey has since branded each of them renegades and exiles, meddlers and psychopaths.)

“Last time, I was a child. I didn’t know any better and it cost me everything.” He swallows. “I know myself better now.” (Even without his intimate knowledge of death, he knows that the sheer quantity of war on such a scale would consume him.) He cannot do that to himself. He will not burn for the Time Lords. Not even over the Daleks. “I will die before I join their War.”

(The words taste like death on his tongue.)

The Brigadier sits up sharply and his eyes narrow. “You, of all people, should know better than to say something like that.”

(Sometimes, he hates that his ability to regenerate can diminish the meaning of his death.)

He sighs, shrugs a shoulder. “I know. What I meant was…” But The Brigadier just levels him that look, the one especially for him, and he trails off. Of course the man knows what he meant. He doesn’t apologise; not for that. Instead, he looks helplessly at his friend and whispers at last, “do I not deserve to have a life of my own?”

“Yes. You do.” The Brigadier’s eyes are shadowed by grief (but with which grief?) and it makes his friend look…old. “I wasn’t trying to suggest that you don’t understand war, Doctor. All I meant was, no matter your choice, this War will still affect your life.” The Brigadier sets his glass down, leans forwards. “I know how you feel about the High Council. And The Daleks. And war in general. But it sounds to me like this War goes beyond all of that.”

“You think I should go.” Despair settles over him. “You…want me to go?”

But The Brigadier shakes his head. “No. But I know you. You’ve always carried the world on your shoulders. But don’t try to shoulder the universe too. The weight would be too much for even you to bear. You know you won’t have to become embroiled in the conflict for the War to touch you.”

He waits for the man to make his point.

“This choice will always be yours, Doctor, and yours alone. I just want to know that you’ll LIVE with your choice.”

He frowns, stares, confused. Because what is that supposed to mean?

He is spared from having to work it out by Doris, poking her head around the wall. “Alistair? I’m going to go back to bed.”

As The Brigadier responds affirmatively, she moves into the room. He takes the opportunity to apologise to her again, and he knows his smile is self-conscious but there isn’t much he can do to help that.

“Nonsense.” She tells him. “It’s no trouble at all.” She leans over to kiss The Brigadier’s cheek. Their easy domesticity eases some of the tension from his shoulders.

That’s when it happens. 

(Unbidden, the awareness of death swamps his mind. While he has long known that The Brigadier dies peacefully in bed, this does not prepare him for the truth of the terminal illness that the man will contract within the next decade and the slow decay that it wreaks within him. This alone is bad enough to endure. But Doris meets her end beneath the water.)

A different kind of cold takes him. Not the empty numbness of death, but a damp and icy chill. It is the salt-ridden stain of tears. It leaves behind the taste of sorrow, of loss, of guilt and self-recrimination.

(He drowns in it, just as she will. As he is submerged, the new cold douses the embers that have been flickering at his heels. But instead of putting the fires out, the BURNING merely intensifies. He is caught between the conflicting sensations – the cold of grief and the BURN of War – as the two opposing forces attempt to tear him apart.)

There are hands on his face. “Breathe, Doctor!” It takes him a moment to realise that he has stopped doing that. (But he cannot breathe! If he opens his mouth he will swallow the water he is drowning in – that Doris shall drown in – he will inhale the smoke that is billowing off of Time.) The world has gone grey around the edges, fading. “Breathe, man!” (Does he want to?)

(If he dies here, now, then The Brigadier will be the one tasting that icy grief.)

Air rasps down his windpipe. The world remains blurred, but that’s due to the water in his eyes now, not the lack of oxygen in his lungs. When he blinks past it he notices that Doris is gone, but The Brigadier is still here. This thought makes him splutter painfully around the lump in his throat. He finally manages to focus on his friend.

If The Brigadier was concerned before, he is alarmed now. “What –”

“Nothing!” His scream is hoarse and weak. This, of course, does not convince the man. He shakes violently. “Do not ask, my friend, please. Do not ask.” He knows if he is asked again he will speak the truth. He will not cause The Brigadier more grief than his future will already bring. “I can’t, I can’t…”

(He curses death, life, and everything in between.)

Eventually he is able to draw in a breath deep enough to fill his lungs close to bursting. He rests his forehead against The Brigadier’s arm, taking comfort in the man’s presence. He does not speak.

And The Brigadier does not ask.

-

The sun is high in the sky before he feels brave enough to venture back outside. The temperature is mild now and he has found his equilibrium again. He bids The Brigadier a fond farewell and smiles pleasantly, as though he hasn’t spent hours prior fishtailing madly between anxiety, bitterness and despair. He steps off the porch, then hovers, catching The Brigadier’s hesitation. He waits.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.” The Brigadier says softly. “I don’t want to make things worse.” He continues to wait, uncertain. “But if they’ve called all of the renegades…what about The Master?”

This is not what he had been expecting and it brings him up short. “He’s dead.”

The Brigadier makes a noise that suggests this fact is rendered moot. Given the resilience of Time Lords, and The Mater’s particular track record, he has a point. “Well, his choice is his own too. Don’t let him…” The Brigadier waves his hand around vaguely, “complicate things for you.”

“Well, we have always been rather complicated, I suppose.” He smiles wryly. “But even if he…it wouldn’t change anything.”

The Brigadier eyes him shrewdly. It’s a piercing look and he can’t help but squirm, wondering if this is how people feel when they are fixed under his own perceptive gaze. He looks away, but he sets his jaw defiantly. It wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t.

“Doctor.” The Brigadier waits until he looks up again. “You can call me, if you need to.”

(He does not cry with relief, at the offer, at the fact that his friend has decided to say nothing more about his long time enemy. But it’s a near thing.) “Thank you.” (His voice trembles only slightly, but The Brigadier respectfully ignores this.) He can always rely on The Brigadier.

-

Evidence of the War begins to seep down into the lower temporal currents, skirting around the fringes of linear time. Awareness of what is transpiring begins to slowly spread throughout the universe. It is fairly common knowledge that the Time Lords and the Daleks have vanished, removed to a higher plane, but now there is growing recognition that their War is having an effect on both Time and Space.

The universe is awash with pain and suffering, brought on by the two warring forces. He is a Doctor. He cannot stand idly by and do nothing.

(But he will not join their War.)

He maintains that he is not shouldering the burdens of the universe; he is merely exacting damage control. Despite the rising unease amongst the more open-minded ephemerals across the galaxy, the ripples being given off by the War are quite minor. (He hopes they remain to be rather minor, in the scale of things. There is infinite potential for things to become worse. Much worse.) Time zones are warped, small spacial pockets of recursive occlusion are generated, and life cycles of entire solar systems are accelerated. Stars spontaneously form before the surrounding space is ready for such an event and entire planets burn out of Time, scorched by the echoes of the War. Histories are unwritten, then rewritten, and then unravelled once more. Futures are splintered apart and then spliced back together.

He helps where he can; repairing and healing the rifts that are being torn open across the universe. He follows in the wake of the damage, mending what he is able. By concentrating on his tasks he can pretend that all of these incidents are unrelated. He can pretend to ignore the heat that clings to each disaster – the BURN that lies behind the cause. He can pretend that he never heard that call.

On the days that he cannot pretend, he barricades himself in his TARDIS and lets the universe exist without him.

-

(He wants his own life to belong to him alone; to be allowed to choose his own fate. Is this so wrong?)

-

He is experimenting with enhancements to his psychic paper – increasing its receptiveness to the reader’s preconceptions – when the message appears, directed towards him over the astral plane. One of the sheets turn black and the words that scrawl into existence are written in blood-red ink. 

‘The cowards have unleashed their Master of Death. Hark, the drums of War: can you hear them? Will you answer this call?’

He drops everything and runs, fleeing the room. (The Master’s joined the War.) He bursts into the console room, lunges for the phone. He watches the scanner doubtfully as the phone dials but there is no movement to meddle with the TARDIS’s flight path. The High Council may have deemed their situation dire enough to resurrect The Master, to pull the man free of the Eye of Harmony, but it appears that they have learnt their lesson regarding him at last; chasing him is no longer worth it.

“Yes?”

“Brigadier?” He exhales shakily. “It’s me.”

“Doctor? Where are you?”

Unimportant. “The Master’s gone to WAR. He wants to know if I – if I’m –” He begins to tremble with what he tells himself is frustration. (Will you answer ‘this’ call, The Master had asked. Not ‘the’ call that the Council had sent out; ‘this’ call, from The Master himself.) “I can’t, this, WHY must he –” he strangles a scream and thumps his hand against the console. (He hates that man sometimes. All the time. Often. Forever. Never.) The Master has thrown himself into the Time War. He doesn’t want to go to War. He and The Master have always been complicated. His choice is his own. He doesn’t want this. So much death, it would consume him. The Master has gone to War. This doesn’t change anything. It shouldn’t. It cannot.

(He remembers the moment, when they had been bound together by the Eye of Harmony, when he was aware of The Master’s future; HUNDREDS of deaths behind a BURNING wall of fire, and he is under no illusions now about what that means.)

“Doctor.” The Brigadier’s voice is controlled. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

The instruction cuts through the conflicting swarm of his thoughts. “I don’t want to go to War.” The words are hard, his tone sharp. He needs to be sure, amid this knowledge that The Master is now caught up in that BURNING, that his choice has not changed simply because of this. “I want you to argue with me about my decision.”

“The Master has a history of involving himself in war.” The Brigadier begins promptly, any misgivings hidden beneath his professionalism. “You’ve never been able to prevent that before, no matter how responsible you feel about it. You should be worried about letting him coax you into it too.”

“You think I’d go to war for HIM?”

“You have a habit of trying to save him from himself. Typical, that you would change your mind, just for his sake.”

“I have NOT changed my mind.”

“Have you not? It sounds to me like you’ve been waiting for an excuse. The Time Lords have gone to War. And now you’re the only one left who’s not fighting in it.”

“They have millions of Time Lords! They don’t need me!”

“You renegades are their specialists. You’re all far more qualified for War than a billion soldiers. And face it Doctor, you probably know more about fighting the Daleks than anyone else in the universe, Time Lord or not. The High Council would benefit from your expertise.” 

“I owe them NOTHING.”

“I know what the High Council has put you through. But the Time Lords are your people.”

“Not anymore.” His voice is cold; he feels even colder. (He has not felt so cold since he was dead.)

“What of The Master then? What is he?” 

His eventual answer is sombre. “Death.”

“Well then.” The Brigadier is silent for a while. “…Better?”

“Yes. Thank you. I needed that.” (He does not feel any better. But he is reassured. If The Master cannot sway him into joining the War, then no one can.) “This is my choice.”

(And The Master has made his own choice too. No matter how the man BURNS, this cannot be his fault. His knowledge of the man’s future, the man’s deaths, cannot change the outcome here. Not all Time can be changed.)

-

He grows more careful about concealing his true nature. The term ‘Time Lord’ does not hold the same connotations that it once did. The linear inhabitants of the universe are quick to place blame on the Time Lords and the Daleks alike for their inconsequential troubles. After a particularly nasty incident involving a human lynch mob – who decides that his knowledge of death must place him at the heart of the ‘Time Lord conspiracy’ – he decides to avoid other people as much as he can.

He refuses to be the target of discontent for his entire race.

-

Something must be going wrong, he realises. The Time Lords must be suffering some sort of crisis, because the barriers between dimensions begin to grow unstable, stretching like rubber and heaving like a fluid. Damage control abruptly becomes major surgery.

(He worries that one of the failing dimension walls may lead to E-Space. He does not dare risk checking.)

He tries not to panic. (There is too much to do, far too much for one Time Lord to manage. How can one Time Lord hold back the tide being caused by millions of Time Lords, and billions of Daleks? How much longer can he manage this?) He is so busy attempting to curb his mounting dread that he does not notice the peril he is in until too late. He falls sideways through Time, tearing through one of the fragile barriers into another dimension, another universe. He can do nothing but cling to the console, the cloister bell toiling raggedly as the TARDIS crashes down and his world goes dark.

-

When he is finally able to pry open the doors he almost falls out of the old tree that the TARDIS is suspended in. Climbing down is difficult, hampered by an armful of damaged (near-overloading) couplings but he manages, clutching the long thin power rod between his teeth. He sets off in exploration, skirting around the dark lake and heading up the high rise out of the valley. When he crests the hill, strewn out before him is a battlefield.

(He cannot help but reel back from all the death, bleeding out across the land.)

“To me, men!” A voice cries above the din, full of command and valour. “Rally to me! We cannot allow them to take the Hill!”

He turns automatically towards the voice, feeling it stir his loyalties despite his long-held contempt for the authority of military forces. But before he can identify the man, another voice sounds out. One that he knows.

“You think your men can still achieve victory here?” He catches sight of Morgaine immediately, standing proud and terrible, surrounded by carnage. “Badon shall be mine, Arthur!”

He can feel the unnatural vibrations in the planet’s magnetic fields. This planet – if not this universe – is pulsing with temporal and spacial energies leaking over from his own universe. The fires of the Time War are fuelling the battles here. He refuses to feel responsible; there is nothing he can do about the Time War. But this battle, THIS battle he CAN end.

“Stop!” He roars, letting his voice carry and echo along the particles of space native to his universe, giving it a near tangible substance. “I command it! There will be no battle here!” (He knows these words belonged to his predecessor and using them makes him feel sour.)

Surprisingly (or perhaps unsurprisingly given what had occurred in the past when he used this command), the soldiers all stop fighting and as one they turn towards him. There are several long moments of stillness.

Morgaine is the one to break it, laughing slowly as she sneers. “Who are you to make such a command? What manner of power have you?” 

The power couplings rather conveniently choose this moment to begin overloading. He can feel the surrounding space warp and curl. “You wish to see my power, Morgaine? Very well. By my power, I demand that you leave this place! Return from whence you came!” He drives the sharp end of the power rod into the ground just as the couplings jolt. Energy jumps from the rod, reaching for the familiar spacial particles; space ripples and vortexes open up, swallowing Morgaine and half her force, before collapsing in on themselves.

(He keeps his expression neutral despite feeling quite pleased; casting her down at Badon with his mighty arts indeed.)

As the remainder of Morgaine’s soldiers start surrendering to the opposing force, he hears another voice that he recognises. “Peasant!” Mordred is intercepted by several of the knights and driven to his knees. “What have you done to my mother?!”

“Be still, Mordred, son of the Battle Queen. Your mother still lives. I merely sent her back to her palace.”

“Well met, stranger. I must thank you.” He turns to see the man with the inspiring voice, a crown atop his head and Excalibur in his hand. King Arthur! “Your intervention was most timely. And such a display of power I have never seen. You must be a fine warrior. Or a sorcerer, perhaps?”

His response is pure reflex. “A Doctor, actually.”

“A physician! No wonder your arts are so formidable. It takes great strength to hold back death.” Arthur turns to issue orders to his knights. It gives him a moment to catch his breath. He knows that Arthur couldn’t have meant the sentiment in the way that it truly applies to him, but it still affects him all the same. When the knights start discussing Mordred he turns his attention back to them in time to hear Arthur solemnly declare that Mordred’s life must be forfeit.

“No, your Majesty. There has been enough bloodshed today.” He lowers his voice. “We cannot add one of your own blood to that.”

Arthur starts in surprise. “You have great knowledge.” He considers Mordred briefly, who is glaring spitefully back up at him. “Pray tell, mighty physician, what is your name?”

“I have been given many names.” And it would be so easy at this point, to suggest that Arthur continue to use ‘physician’ or even ‘doctor.’ But he knows better than to interfere with his own past. (Doing so has only ever led to disaster.) “You may call me…Merlin.”

-

As Arthur rounds up his knights, Mordred makes his escape. Arthur watches his retreating figure with a conflicted expression. Eventually the King sighs. “Let him return to his mother.”

-

He knows the legends of Merlin, of course. The man who appears to be a mortal, but in fact is not. It has been said that Merlin was sired by an incubus. (Half-human, on his mother’s side, he has been heard to say.) Merlin is attributed with many supernatural powers, including the ability to shapeshift. (Regeneration brings a whole new appearance and personality.) 

He wonders if perhaps becoming Merlin was always going to be inevitable.

-

He decides to grow another ship in order to get back home. The new ship will only be able to make one trip through space-time, but being grown in this environment will give it the advantage for take-off and sustained flight across the dimensions, whereas the TARDIS would struggle to make jump back on its own. Together, they should be able to bridge the gap. It would normally be too risky a gamble, but he has the benefit of hindsight: he knows this is going to work because it had.

He is introduced to Arthur’s most trusted vassal. “Ancelyn ap Gwelchmai, knight general of the Britons.” They shake hands. “It’s an honour, Merlin. I will do all I can to assist you with the repairs to your ship of time.”

“Thank you, Ancelyn.” He smiles. “I think we’ll get along splendidly.”

-

He spends most of his time divided between the keep at Arthur’s castle and his TARDIS beside the lake. He is aware of the skirmishes that occur between the rival kingdoms, but he clings desperately to the hope that the situation will not escalate. The very last thing he wants is to become caught up in a war.

He is satisfied with the growth of the new ship. Progress is slow, but steady. He takes an evening off from repairs and stares out at the lake, absolutely not pondering a different War.

Arthur settles in beside him. “I know that look upon a man’s face, Merlin. You think on a Lady dear to you, one sundered from you by circumstance; by war.”

He does not bother to correct the feminine pronoun. After all, gender is fluid amongst Time Lords and the rest of the statement rather does apply to The Master. “Nimium,” he murmurs to himself. It is an appropriate term for their feelings, their bond, the whole situation; far too much, yet still immeasurable.

Arthur mishears him. “Nimue? Your Lady of the Lake is named thus?

The irony makes his smile bittersweet. (He knows the tales of Merlin’s love for her, Nimue’s hatred of him; a tragic tale of deception, betrayal and death. Merlin, who had the foresight that Nimue would bring about his end and yet was still unable to save himself.) “Yes, why not?” After all, the Lady of the Lake, has taken on many variations of her name throughout legend, just as Merlin has. (Just as both The Doctor and The Master have.) “Nimue.” He leans down and swirls his finger through the cool water, not quite as cold as death. “If only this water could douse all the fires of War. Then perhaps I could still save Nimue.”

“I remember walking in the woods of Celadon with Morgaine. It all used to be so simple back then.” Arthur’s smile is just as bittersweet. “Now I fear I may never be able to save her from herself.”

-

He visits her palace. She wants him to bow but he does not, not even out of courtesy. She is begrudgingly impressed by his boldness. “It is rare to find such spirit in one so young.”

“I am older than I look, Morgaine.” He takes his seat across from her. “One’s aspect may change, and I have worn many faces.”

Their game of chess is a drawn out affair. They are rather evenly matched but he is not surprised when she declares checkmate. As they reset the pieces he broaches the topic of war. “It’s still avoidable, you know.”

She shakes her head. “Death is poised to fly. There is no stopping this war. And when it ends, victory shall be mine.”

“Victory is nothing without honour.” He warns her. “You may find the battle as glorious as you dream it to be, but then what? What happens to you, and to Arthur, beyond this battlefield?”

But she does not hear him – whether she is ignoring him or simply ignorant he cannot tell. Instead she gestures to him with his now-captured bishop. “You fear war, Merlin. I see the truth of this burn behind your eyes at all times. Do not stand against me, for your soul’s sake. If I must destroy you to achieve my victory, then I shall.”

“My end shall not come at your hand. Take care, Morgaine. The worst fate that can befall one is the bitter cup that is mixed for one’s self.” (Shadowy impressions of death stir in his mind; he turns his thoughts aside. It does not do well to linger on such morbid thoughts.) He moves his rook. “Check.”

-

The situation grows steadily worse. Battles begin to grow fiercer and Mordred gains both ground and strength. He watches as Arthur’s mood turns grimmer. And then one morning he turns towards his friend and finds death waiting in his shadow. Word has been received that Mordred moves to take Camlann. Arthur announces that he will lead his remaining forces on the morrow to oppose the army there.

“I shall not ask you to ride with me, Merlin.” Arthur tells him. “You have a journey of your own to undertake.” The King lays his hand on Excalibur’s hilt, his manner sombre. “I must dispatch Mordred swiftly. When he falls, Morgaine will come. And then we two must end this.”

He reaches out, catching Arthur’s hand as the man moves to draw his sword, and holds it in place. “You do not have to kill Mordred, Arthur.” He says firmly. “The scabbard is worth ten of the sword.” Arthur’s brow furrows and he expands his meaning; “it requires more courage to spare a life than it does to take one. You can still save Mordred.” He takes a deep breath. “You can still save Morgaine.”

“Some battles are lost long before they are fought, Merlin.” Arthur smiles sadly.

-

“Dawn will bring war upon us.” Ancelyn says as they watch the night. “Do you ride with us, Merlin? Or do you return to your ship of time?”

Has he spent so long fleeing from one War only to become embroiled in another? “I don’t know.” Can he leave Arthur and Ancelyn to face their fates alone, having long known what will become of them? Knowing that their fates are beyond his power to change?

“Here there be dragons,” Ancelyn murmurs.

“Dragons of our own making.” He says. “Do we let them rule us with fear? Or can we tame them?” He thinks of Ancelyn’s proud smile beside a hedge on the eve of his new life. “Courage, Ancelyn. The first battle you must win is the one within yourself. Then you can face any dragon.” 

-

When the knights ride out at dawn, he takes his place by Arthur’s side. He refuses the offer of a weapon. He is no warrior. He only wades into this war for the sake of his friends. He may not be able to change Arthur’s fate, but he can ensure that his friend will not have to face his death alone.

-

He strides through the sea of death, disarming and incapacitating every soldier who crosses his path, no matter who they serve. Death clings to him and swirls in his wake like a cape, staining the very essence of the world around him. It throttles him. It drowns him. He begins to fade into the dark, mortality painted on his eyelids and streaming from his lips. Knights fall as he names them. The battlefield exists on two plains; one in his perception, then an echo as death fulfils his foresight. He feels cold. He feels numb. He feels death. (He feels dead.)

(He buries himself within the sensation. If he is cold and numb, then he is not BURNING, and he shamefully takes comfort in this. This war is not THAT War.)

-

He is so deeply immersed in the cold grip of death that he does not notice Arthur is in trouble until he hears the man’s anguished cry from across the field. He turns in alarm to see Mordred crumpled and clutching his injured side; Arthur moving towards him, his sword limp in his grasp and his expression one of grief. Arthur is rubbing his shoulder tenderly; Mordred has wounded him.

(You idiot, he curses himself. Not all death comes on swift wings, even in war. A man can be felled by many small wounds as easily as he can by a single blow. Why had he left Arthur’s side?)

“Kill me then and be done with it.” Mordred hisses, hatred dripping from his tongue.

Arthur raises his sword. He brings the hilt crashing down upon Mordred’s head and knocks him out. Then he kneels beside the boy and lays a hand on his chest, over his heart.

He has barely taken a step towards Arthur when, true to the man’s prediction, Morgaine appears. She does not spare a glance for Mordred, her attention fixed on the King. (She does love her child. But she feels much more for Arthur.) She draws her blade and their own war begins.

(He knows he will not make it over to them in time to intervene.)

-

He knows, of course, moments before it occurs. And there is nothing he can do.

It happens simply, with a quietness that most people would feel belies the impact of such a moment. Arthur parries and Morgaine takes advantage, but Arthur – hampered by the wound he suffered from Mordred – does not counter in time. A blade pierces flesh. Excalibur settles softly on the ground. Arthur drops to his knees, his movements still graceful even now. Morgaine stares at her fallen foe, fingers still outstretched before her, her snarl empty and her eyes lost.

Arthur's smile is gentle and his fingers curl almost reverently around the hilt buried in his midsection. “Morgaine.” He breathes her name like it's a benediction. A tear slides down his face. “Morgaine.”

She takes a step back. Then another. She trembles.

He walks towards them, his hearts twisting brokenly in his chest. He cannot bear to watch this. But he cannot bring himself to look away. (He empathises with them both.)

“Morgaine...”

She tips back her head and screams. Lightning arcs from her fingertips and the sky rumbles. The world grows dark.

The knights who had not yet already fled from battle take this opportunity to do so.

He reaches Arthur's side, places a hand on his shoulder and their eyes meet. He does not waste his breath on false platitudes. Arthur has not yet removed the sword, but the ground beneath him is already soaked in blood.

“Merlin.” Arthur whispers. “Please. Save her.”

He is doing this for Arthur and Morgaine. (He tells himself it has nothing to do with a personal battlefield of his own; a man who has bled for him, and who he has bled for. A man who is fighting an impossible War without him.) He nods once and places his hand upon Excalibur.

“I swear, I will save her.” The words are raw with ancient grief. “From this war and all others. From herself. From you.”

Arthur exhales. “Then take up arms.”

With the King's blessing, he takes Excalibur. He advances towards the woman consumed by her own (grief and) rage.

“Morgaine!” He hefts the sword into a ready position. “Face me!”

She sees Excalibur first, as he knew she would. Her awareness narrows to Arthur’s sword in the hands of another. “Give me the sword!” She screams. “Give me Excalibur!” He says no words nor does he move. He does not have to wait very long for her to rush at him, intent on taking the sword away from him. The instant she is within his reach, he catches her and send her to sleep.

He stands alone on the battlefield, having been abandoned by the fearful and the mad, surrounded by the fallen and the slain. He shudders violently and surrenders the sword he had taken.

-

He seals Morgaine in the ice caves near his lake. The cryogenics will affect her short-term memory. When she awakens, she will not remember entering the Battle of Camlann, nor what occurred there. Instead, she will believe that it was she who had bound him in the ice caves; she will tell Mordred that this had been Merlin’s fate.

The apple trees that surround the entrance to the caves are in bloom. They will bloom many times before Morgaine awakens. As the sorceress sleeps, she will dream of Excalibur and the King who wields it. She will wait at Avalon until Excalibur calls to her.

-

He makes no secret of the fact that Arthur fell at Camlann. That Arthur now sleeps. He tells Ancelyn and the other knights of Arthur’s circle that a time will come that heralds Excalibur’s call. The time of restitution, the people begin to call it and they assume that Arthur will rise again. He doesn’t bother to correct them.

What he does do is impress upon Ancelyn the importance of hope.

“I have no honour left.” Ancelyn says brokenly. “What warrior allows themselves to be overcome in such a manner?”

“You were not the only one to flee in fear of me, and you were right to do so. On that battlefield, I was death.” He places his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You fled because you value life, Ancelyn. And that is nothing to be ashamed of.” He smiles warmly. “Sometimes, being overcome…or vanquished…can actually be a good thing. It helps you learn.”

-

Merlin vanishes from their world as suddenly as he had appeared.

-

Sliding back into his own universe is far easier than falling out of it had been; his hunch about the two ships buffering each other in the journey was correct. He is entirely unfazed when he lands in a tunnel in the eighth century.

He sets the “Camelot” ship (which is actually “KAMLOT” – “King Arthur Multiverse: Linear-Only Transport” ship) at the end of the tunnel. He positions Excalibur where Ace had found it.

(“I always knew it was going to be myself that I could not save, Merlin.”)

He rigs up the automated defence system. Then he very carefully places Arthur’s body in place, tucks the note to himself in the helmet and reverently places it back upon Arthur’s head.

(“Your Lady of the Lake. Did you make…such a vow for her?”)

He sends out the signal, a summoning, sideways in Time…to where it will reach his predecessor.

(“You saved Morgaine. I feared it could…not be done. You may still…save Nimue yet…”)

He walks away without looking back. 

-

He still maintains (for The Brigadier’s sake) that he is not shouldering the burdens of the universe. But in order to blind himself to the flames that flicker constantly on the edge of his senses (and how he hates that he has had to come back to this), he runs himself ragged mopping up the shattered pieces of space, the frayed threads of time. The exhaustion is almost enough to make him forget.

But then he starts seeing echoes of long lost friends and associates everywhere he turns: geneticists, arms dealers, religious zealots. (He tries not to think on old friends who are lost to the War.) Suffering and death wherever he looks. (Death begins to be haunted by a searing wave of heat before the fall into the cold. It’s horrifying.) The flames of War are beginning to subconsciously infect the universe. The mere existence of the Time War begins to incite other wars, touching linear beings on a subliminal level and inciting compulsions for battle.

He still does not go. (Skirting war in Arthur’s Briton had near devoured him, and that had been death alone, untainted by the BURNING. If he touches this War, he knows there will be nothing left of him.) He cannot go.

-

He tries to stitch the universe back together, one atom at a time. Eventually he cannot even bear to look at his hands anymore; no matter how often he scrubs them raw he cannot shake the perception that they are soaked in the blood of every being who has been afflicted by the War.

(Is there no escape from this?)

-

The universe becomes a lost cause. He begins to count his successes one life at a time instead. It is almost enough.

-

“I’m not part of the War. I swear to you I never was.”

“You’re a Time Lord.”

She judges him, on behalf of his entire race. But he is a renegade, an outcast. He has never really been one of his own people, even when being Gallifreyan had meant something to him. This War has nothing to do with him. He tries to placate her; even if he is a Time Lord, at least he is not a Dalek.

“Who can tell the difference anymore?” Contempt drips from her voice. She barricades herself in the hold of the ship, away from him, and death shrouds her form.

“I’m trying to help!”

“Go back to your battlefield.” He refuses to go, refuses to leave her. “Then you’re going to die right here.” Hatred contorts her expression, her eyes overbright. “Best news all day.”

(“Die right here,” shivers coldly through his bones; “you’re going to die.”)

(He knows, immediately, that he is about to die.)

“Cass…” There is death everywhere, constricting around them both. “Cass!”

They hurtle into the darkness.

-

He has long maintained that he would rather die than join the Time War. And so, he does: death takes him and intends to keep him.

He is prepared to remain there forever. But something wrenches him back up out of the dark.

-

For a moment, disorientated and confused, he thinks he must have survived.

“No.” The woman says. “We restored you to life, but it is a temporary measure.”

He realises where he is and who he is with. “Sisterhood of Karn. Keepers of the Flame.” Eternal life.

“Our Elixir could trigger your regeneration. Bring you back.” 

He knows it could; his body is dead and Time is holding him within the echo of what had been his life. Most Time Lords fear this fate. But he is not like most Time Lords. He does not fear death, and this body of his is particularly attuned to it. He could exist within this half-life if he had to. What would another regeneration bring him anyway? His new life would be just as vulnerable – if not more so – to the death that swarms the universe. He would prefer to remain dead than join the Time War; life has less to give now than it once did.

“The change doesn’t have to be random.”

He stops, despite himself. He has never been able to choose before; he does not have the discipline for it. And now he is being offered choice: fat or thin, young or old, man or woman?

(He has been so fixated on choice, in his effort to avoid the War. Had he perceived that choice would be offered to him in death? Is that why he has been so adamant about needing to have a choice?)

“Why would you do this for me?”

“You have helped us in the past.”

He remembers. “You were never big on gratitude.” He hesitates. 

(If he is dead, then it no longer matters. He digs deep, behind his memories to where he sealed the essences of his past selves. Four had feared this, he recalls abruptly; feared that gratitude would taste like standing on the brink of war. And here he is now.)

“The War between the Daleks and the Time Lords threatens all of reality. YOU are the only hope left.” He is just one man! What difference would he make? It is not his War! “You can’t ignore it forever.”

(He can try.) “I help where I can.” He may refuse to take up arms, but he has not been idle with his life. He has healed what he could. “I call myself The Doctor.” In a universe with nothing else left, at least he still has this: the promise that he made to himself, long ago.

“In that case, Doctor” – and the derision attached to his Name is searing – “attend your patient.”

They bring in Cass’s body. She’d had a great love for the universe, despite the ruin it lay in. She had chosen to let death take her, rather than remain in the presence of the man who she felt embodied those who were responsible for this ruin.

“She was wiser than you. She understood there is no escaping the Time War.”

“I would rather die.” But what is this sentiment worth now? As it is pointed out, he is dead already.

“How many more will you let join you?”

He looks at Cass, lost to death, whereas he continues to hold death back. (Whether he wants to or not.) He would not burn for the Time Lords. But for his beloved humans? If, by entering the war, he could spare but one life…

“We beg your help now.” The Sister implores him. “The universe stands on the brink. Will you let it fall?” She offers him further choices: fast or strong, wise or angry? “What do you NEED now?” She is desperate for his answer.

He takes Cass’s bandolier, turns the leather over in his hands. It is very similar to the one he had worn once, long ago, in another war. He feels so small and alone.

(The echoes of his other selves still do not stir in his mind, despite that fact that he has now reached for them. He had chosen to cut himself off from the other seven who had come before him, desiring independence. He certainly achieved it. He cannot even draw upon them for help now.)

(The one who he gets closest to is Three. Perhaps this is no surprise, given that Three had almost unintentionally achieved what he had done purposefully. But despite this, even Three remains inaccessible.) 

This choice is now his alone. As is the responsibility of what he is about to become.

(The memory of Salyavin comes to mind; the young renegade who severed himself from his other self and what he had become as a result. For all his faults, at least he can still claim to be The Doctor, no matter that he had not been close to the other Doctors.)

He had taken the Name ‘Doctor’ and he has sworn by it in all of his Eight personas. But he has long had problems counting from Eight to Nine. Perhaps now he understands why; because Nine is not what shall follow after Eight.

(How far is he prepared to go for the sake of life?)

What does he need to be now? “Warrior.” The word scalds his tongue. “I don’t suppose there’s any need for a Doctor anymore.” He was The Doctor. (He had promised himself; never cruel or cowardly, never giving up and never giving in.) But in order to join this War, there must be nothing left of him. “Make me a Warrior now.”

She offers him a chalice. “I took the liberty of preparing this one myself.”

He takes it. (He is astounded that his hands do not shake.) “Get out, GET OUT! All of you.” As he holds the chalice – holds his own fate – in his hands, he wonders if he ever really had a choice. “Will it hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He stares at the Elixir and prepares to allow death to relinquish him. “Charley, K’riss, Lucie, Tasmin, Molly; friends, companions I’ve known, I salute you…And Cass. I apologise.”

He raises the chalice. The concoction in his hands all boils down to choice. If he is going to fight in the Time War, then the choice of what he is about to become must be placed into the hands of one far more qualified than himself. The decision needs to be made by a Warrior, not a Doctor. So he leaves the choice of what they are to become to his next self. He will turn his own death into a blank slate for the future.

“Physician, heal thyself.”

The Elixir touches his lips, washes over his tongue, streams down his throat. He is torn from the embrace of death, but death does not leave him. Death settles into his hands, still blazing with light. That light travels through him, bright, burning away the cold dark of death. Numbness is replaced with pain; higher than he has ever had to physically endure before. He folds in on himself and surrenders himself over to the choice.

-

He becomes what is necessary.

Conviction.

-

“Is it done?”

He allows himself one fleeting brush of his finger against Cass’s cheek, out of respect for the one who drank from the chalice. Then he holsters the bandolier into place.

“Doctor no more.” He declares.

He does not catch a clear glimpse of his reflection, but doing so would have been pointless anyway. His face is young at first, but as he leaves the chamber and heads towards the TARDIS his body is still absorbing the Elixir. As a result, he begins to age. His regeneration settles and by the time he has reached her doors, he is a much older man. And this is how he shall remain.

-

The TARDIS is contrite under his hands. She must have always known that he would become this.

-

He hears the thundering footsteps approaching just as he places the two envelopes down upon the desk and he knows the old girl has done this to him on purpose; now there is no opportunity to leave undetected. He has barely finished thinking this when the door bursts open.

“Doctor?”

“Do not call me by that Name.” It is no longer his. “I am Not The Doctor.”

The abrupt lack of colour on The Brigadier’s face is the only thing that indicates he understands what has just been said. When he finally does speak, it is only to voice the obvious question. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to leave you these.” He gestures to the envelopes; both plain and unassuming, both sealed, one reading ‘1977’ and the other ‘do not open until 1983.’

“I take it I’m not going to see you for a while then.” A finger taps against the latter date.

“No.” The Brigadier will see The Doctor again in Time, but never HIM.

A firm look is sent his way and he is surprised to find that it still strikes him the same way it had all of The Doctor’s. “Are you in trouble?”

His mouth curls slightly, stealing his breath a moment; he did not realise his face could smile.

“Of course you are.” The Brigadier huffs in exasperation. Then, in a softer tone, “can I help?”

“Not this time, Brigadier.” He owes this man so much, but he no longer has the Time for anything more than this. “I have to go.” He holds out his hand. “Goodbye. Alistair.”

“Goodbye, my friend.” The Brigadier grasps his hand firmly. “Splendid fellows, all of you.”

He knows why his friend has said this. But he did not come here looking for absolution and so he shakes his head, rejecting the sentiment.

He is Not The Doctor. And there is a War calling to him.

-

The Brigadier opens the envelope labelled ‘1977’ immediately upon his guest’s departure. It contains instructions for both him and UNIT; precautions and measures to ensure that nothing will endanger The Brigadier’s mind. For the next six years, it is necessary that there be no trace in The Brigadier’s life of the scientific advisor with multiple faces. People with a high risk of association – such as Benton, Jo and Sarah Jane – are cautioned to limit their contact with the man so as to not undermine the situation. There is also a warning to UNIT that duplicity shall not be tolerated. A rather caustic threat follows this – that a telepathic field now encapsulates the grounds which will decimate the mind of any human entering the space with knowledge of the Time Lords, to ensure no one can take advantage of The Brigadier’s lull of awareness; though reassurance is offered to The Brigadier that the field will be dissolved with the return of the TARDIS.

The letter concludes with one final addendum advising The Brigadier not to cheat, because there is someone’s lives at stake. The use of the plural – not the singular ‘life’ – does not escape The Brigadier’s notice. Implementing each of the instructions does not take long, and once everything has been put into place The Brigadier folds the letter carefully back into its envelope, tucks it and its counterpart inside his personal copy of ‘The Time Machine.’ The book is stowed beneath his bed alongside other assorted memorabilia; personal possessions that are too bittersweet to be disturbed often.

The next day, The Brigadier meets a spirited young girl with an Australian accent. 

The importance of the book is then forgotten.

-

It is only after a frank discussion with Turlough’s ‘solicitor’ about precisely where the boy has gone in whose company, and having arrived at the decision not to inform UNIT about the true identities of either individual, that The Brigadier remembers the letter and the man who had left it. He retrieves the book from beneath his bed and takes a moment to reverently brush off the dust that lingers across the title. Then he pulls forth the letter marked ‘do not open until 1983.’ He assumes it is to be much like the other was: a practical and semi-professional summarisation of loose ends that need tying up.

But it is not.

‘Alistair,’ it reads. ‘The Time Lords and the Daleks have gone to War. The High Council have recalled all their renegades – their greatest soldiers – and in order to save the billions throughout the universe who are suffering as a result of this conflict, I am now prepared to answer that call. I take up arms for the sake of all the linear beings who have come to hate and curse the Time Lords as they do the Daleks. I have played a part in these events, willing or not, and it is past time I stopped running from the consequences. Perhaps refusing to become involved in the Time War was never really an option. Even so, the choice I have made was my own and it has been done with conviction. Whether or not this is my War, I vow to see it through to the end.’

‘Though I have never been much of a soldier, as you well know, I hope that you appreciate that I have always thought you to be living proof that a warrior can engage in battle without sacrificing his humanity. You have done so much to help me, throughout all of my lives. I will never be able to repay you, but I want you to know that it was an honour to have been considered your friend.’

‘This is not quite goodbye, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart. You shall see The Doctor again, in Time. On behalf of all The Doctors – and myself – thank you for everything.’

The Brigadier stares at the final sentence on the page for a long time.

Eventually The Brigadier pours himself a brandy, comparing the young man who had recently departed, overflowing with gratitude and understanding, with the memory of the man who no longer answers to his Name. The brandy burns its way down his throat. He may be no Time Lord, but he has known two of them as well as any human can. He knows how Important Names are to Time Lords.

He understands what it means for a Time Lord to renounce his chosen Name.

And he knows that the grief of this revelation will stay with him forever.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts: ‘The Pantheon of Discord’ is the name of a group of transcendental beings who alter reality to cause a lot of chaos and feed off time energy. The Trickster, who is affiliated with this group, really doesn’t like The Doctor very much. (They interact with each other in an episode of The Sarah Jane Adventures called ‘The Wedding of Sarah Jane Smith,’ in case anyone is curious about their meeting.) The Trickster is also affiliated with/in charge of ‘The Trickster’s Brigade,’ who orchestrate the events surrounding Donna Noble in ‘Turn Left.’
> 
> …The Guardians and the Eternals in ‘Enlightenment’ are also transcendental beings. *whistles innocently*
> 
> According to the prose ‘Shadows of Avalon,’ Doris drowns in a boating accident. I have been sticking strictly to episode canon to avoid being consumed by source material, but given Eight’s particular attribute, I felt it was appropriate to include this particular fact. Especially considering the fire/water contrasts I was using elsewhere in this chapter.
> 
> I cherry-picked a few facts and theories from Arthurian legend to include during Eight’s Merlin stint:  
> A – The Battle of Badon Hill and The Battle of Camlann were both referenced in ‘Battlefield.’  
> A – As previously mentioned in The First Rule, Morgan le Fay (Morgaine) is Arthur’s half-sister and occasional lover, and Mordred is usually portrayed as their illegitimate child.  
> A – Merlin’s traditional biography portrays him as the offspring of a human woman and an incubus; the poet Robert de Boron included many references to Merlin’s ability to shapeshift in his works.  
> A – The Lady of The Lake was taught magic by Merlin; Nimue is one of the many variations of her name. Merlin had known she would she would betray him thanks to the ‘truth’ of his foresight.  
> A – Arthur’s final fate is often ambiguous. There are reports that Arthur and Mordred fatally wounded each other in the Battle of Camlann, which is reputed to be King Arthur’s final battle; but some accounts tell that Arthur did not perish: instead a sorceress (usually Morgan le Fay) set Arthur’s body in Avalon so he could recover from his wounds and one day rise again.  
> A – Camelot is King Arthur’s castle. It is often a blanket term for the heart of Arthur’s realm; the location of which is still debated upon today.
> 
> ‘Nimium’ – Latin for too, too much; very, very much, beyond measure, excessive, too great.
> 
> ‘The Time Machine’ is written by H. G. Wells. My headcannon is that The (Third) Doctor gifted a copy of the book to The Brigadier in an effort to ‘educate himself on the complexities of time travel and the challenges that can face a traveller of the fourth dimension.’
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from Doctor Who episodes including; Doctor Who: The Movie (1996); the minisode The Night of The Doctor; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes (particularly Battlefield); and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.
> 
> -


	3. The call to War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient. I’ve had a few major upheavals in my life over the past few months which set my writing back, and this chapter in itself was quite difficult to tackle.
> 
> Reminder – this is a War. There will be war-level violence, emotional manipulation and allusions to torture ahead.
> 
>  
> 
> -

-26-

The battle is heralded as The Last of The Great Time Wars. It begins – in one sense – on Skaro.

-

The High Council of the Time Lords know how insatiable the Dalek appetite for war is and so, though openly interfering is not their usual mantra, they decide to take action. Sending a renegade is ideal; a renegade will instinctively refuse to acknowledge that Gallifrey has authority over their life, causing any accountability over the final decision to be theirs alone. The High Council will be absolved of responsibility the instant they obtain the renegade’s consent to undertake the mission.

The Doctor consents with lacklustre civility. (He can hardly deny them, aware that his refusal would condemn another to fulfil the role.) His two human companions are also deposited on Skaro as incentive. The Doctor’s penchant for humans is a weakness that works in their favour; he will do anything he can to protect them.

But the Council underestimate The Doctor’s regard for humanity. He chooses to avoid genocide.

Averting the creation of the Daleks entirely would have been the most favourable outcome, but the Council are satisfied with their imprisonment and subsequent delayed entry into the universe. They certainly do not regret their interference…especially given that The Doctor’s presence during their genesis has caused the Dalek’s to fixate their blame and focus upon him as an individual, rather than the High Council of the Time Lords as a whole.

The Daleks will hunt – and have hunted – The Doctor throughout Time as a result of his involvement.

-

For a Time, the Daleks are put out of their minds. They have more pressing concerns than the compulsive slaughtering of linear beings. The Doctor and The Master frighten them. The Doctor has broken the Rules (even though the circumstances were by their own design) and he seems to take to it with alarming alacrity. And as for The Master…it is worse not knowing. There are fluctuations in his time stream, but with his biodata wiped from the matrix it is impossible to identify the precise cause of these disturbances. But wherever The Doctor treads, The Master tends to shadow.

The Master kills The President in his quest for more life and is successful. The Doctor orchestrates an invasion just to teach them a lesson. The problem with renegades has never been this drastic before.

The Master may be a psychopath, but at least he tends to remain out of the Council’s way. The Doctor is the greater danger. In his fifth incarnation he faces figures from legend – Omega, Rassilon – and by their count he has transgressed the First Law of Time on eight occasions now. (Eight! There must be no more after eight.) They are at a loss on how to deal with him. Every course of action they have taken in the past has been ineffective. But action is desperately needed.

The High Council give his case to an up-and-coming court prosecutor whose pursuit of justice borderlines upon obsession. He had been the only one willing to take on the case regarding the Arc of Infinity and has handled several more controversial ones since then. He approaches each case with a surgical precision and he always secures the verdicts he pursues. (Most importantly, his lack of political connections renders him potentially disposable.) The Council are satisfied that if anyone is capable of terminating The Doctor, it will be The Valeyard.

-

Discussions about the Daleks begin again but do not take any serious direction: the Daleks have been split into several factions across time and space and there is much in-fighting taking place. There is speculation that perhaps they will manage to destroy themselves, but in the event that they do not…it is well known that all the separate factions still have one thing in common: a desire to exterminate The Doctor.

The discussions are postponed when the third zoners re-appear on their radar – the time experiments being conducted by Kartz and Reimer causing ripples in the time continuum once again. At first they dismiss the matter: the Council had sent The Doctor (in his second incarnation) to handle it shortly after his encounter with Omega, when his third incarnation had been purposefully meddling in the affairs of the universe once more. Though The Doctor (unfortunately) appeared to come out of the incident unscathed, the third zoners had been dealt with and the issue resolved.

They are horrified when The Valeyard brings the new data to their attention. The information in the Matrix regarding the human Jamie McCrimmon has synchronised with The Doctor’s current timeline, revealing that there had been two Doctor’s involved in the incident. The Doctor had CHOSEN to break the First Rule of his own volition, when the stakes were nothing more than himself.

(In this moment, they have never feared him more.)

The Valeyard suggests a trial, confident in his ability to prosecute The Doctor. He agrees to take personal responsibility for the outcome of the trial, putting his name on the official record and absolving the Council of any culpability. In exchange, they agree that if he can source The Doctor’s consent, he may retain the renegade’s future regenerations. (It will be a small price to pay to eliminate the Rule Breaker.)

-

The trial is a disaster. Their fear of The Doctor and The Master grows. (They cannot decide on which fact is more disturbing: The Master blatantly coming to The Doctor’s rescue in an official capacity; The Doctor implying, however falsely, that he was willing to leave The Master’s fate in the Council’s hands; or The Valeyard’s declaring he was unimpressed with The Master as an adversary.)

The Keeper confirms that The Valeyard has perished. He then reveals that he has discovered the Daleks were involved in the eradication of the third zoners. Speculation begins over what motive the Daleks would have had, given that they did not appropriate any of the research. The Council perform a swift scan of the time stream and are reassured when they find that the Daleks are still fighting amongst themselves. If they are embroiled in their own politics, they will not have time to concentrate on external matters. The Daleks do not pose any serious threat to Gallifrey.

-

The destruction of Skaro lights up Time like a signal fire. It instantly garners the attention of the High Council and they are disturbed by the realisation that the Daleks had almost procured the Hand of Omega – stolen from Gallifrey centuries ago. In any case, the fact that the Hand has resurfaced is a clear sign that the Daleks are mobilised for war. Sure enough, in the wake of their defeat by The Doctor, the Daleks remove themselves from linear time. It alarms them that the Daleks have managed to amass such awareness for time travel without their knowledge.

The High Council immediately freeze the spaces between the separate realms of Time down to a mere trickle. It will not hold long, so they work (as) fast (as their bureaucracy allows).

The first thing they do is assess the latest situation: the Daleks wanted the Hand of Omega, so they set out to uncover their source of information. Thanks to The Keeper – who has recently been keeping tabs on all of the renegades and exiles – an earlier temporal faction of Daleks is found to have captured The Master, subjecting him to torture and execution. They decide to allow The Master’s request to have The Doctor transport his remains back to Gallifrey, determined to discover precisely what else the Daleks have learned during his ordeal. (And if they have The Master at their mercy, The Doctor might be persuaded to submit to them: he will not abandon The Master to suffer at their hands alone.)

Predictably, however, the two renegades derail the Council’s plans. It is unfortunate that their two greatest weapons will not be contained for the onset of this battle. But the Council will have to attend to the pair of them later: the current priority is preparing for the Daleks, to ensure that they are ready when the time locks between the realms degrade.

If the Daleks desire war, then the Time Lords shall give them a War.

-

The battle is heralded as The Last of The Great Time Wars. It begins – in another sense – on Skaro.

-

The first instinct of the Daleks is to destroy. They are created in the midst of war, for the purpose of war, and they embrace it. Their creator gives them much knowledge – there are worlds and realms beyond Skaro that they can conquer too. They will be the victors; all other species shall be reduced to nothingness. They are pure. Anything alien is inferior. They are hatred and genocide and they enjoy it.

An alien Doctor intends to destroy them.

He has been sent by his people, the Lords of Time, to alter their nature or eradicate them. He is alien and so should be inferior. He is certainly weak; afflicted with a ‘humanity’ that causes him to fail. And yet, with apparently little effort, he reaches the brink of his objective, holding their fate within his hands before finding cause to waver.

(Here is one who has potential to destroy them as efficiently as they could destroy him.)

This Doctor buries them within the ruins of their own city. They survive, but more to the point, he survives also. Time passes, but they do not forget about the one who defeated them, this Time Lord that they have failed to kill.

-

They are poised to obliterate the Thals at last when four strangers appear and manage to incite the pacifists into fighting back, the Thals engaging in war for the first time in centuries. As a result of the efforts of the strangers, the Daleks find themselves taking a significant defeat, their power supply knocked out.

It does not escape their notice that the leader of the aliens is named ‘Doctor.’ They believe this is what is known as irony.

The Daleks still check that this ‘grandfather’ does not match the visual records of the Time Lord, just to be thorough, and sure enough their features do not correspond. This is not the same man who was present at their genesis.

-

The Daleks spread across the universe, driven by their purpose to exterminate all other life forms. They are the superior beings and it takes them minimal effort to eliminate hundreds, thousands. They are unstoppable.

Until they are not.

Opposition comes in the form of one man who commandeers a small moon in the midst of their campaign. It is a small outpost but data indicates it is a temporal research station. The first three squadrons sent to claim it are vaporised. It takes another five to breach the station’s improved defences. By the time they penetrate the command centre, the man has stripped the station of everything pertaining to time travel. He regards them with mild interest, unruffled in the face of their anger. He states he had his own business here and that he had obliterated their numbers just to see if he could. He seems morbidly amused when they threaten to exterminate him. The man is dead before his body falls.

But he does not remain dead for longer than a few moments.

He seems morbidly appeased after he is reanimated. His physical parameters have all changed. Emboldened by their unsettled response, he reveals himself to be a Time Lord.

They demand his designation. 

They demand this Master tells them of The Doctor, tells them whether The Doctor can also alter his countenance. But mentioning The Doctor causes The Master to become wrathful, to an extent that alarms even them. The Time Lord does something at the console which immobilises them, then annihilates the remainder of their fleet before he strolls across to another computer terminal. The entire terminal dematerialises, taking The Master with it.

The Daleks immediately concur that they may have underestimated the strength of these Time Lords.

-

It is only when they encounter The Doctor once again bearing the same appearance as he had at their genesis do they begin to comprehend the complexities of time travel. More to the point, they begin to understand the degree of power that the Time Lords possess, with their ability to govern Time. Here is the man who had been sent to exterminate them. They have known of him since their beginnings and despite their efforts, they have been unable to exterminate him. 

(His continued existence frightens them. And if The Doctor can inspire fear within them, what else is he capable of?)

Davros gives them perspective: he hates The Doctor as much as they do. (They take their fear and twist it into an even deeper hatred.) A squadron is strapped with explosives and sent after him. They will lay waste to many of their numbers if it means they can end him. But the Time Lord embodies a force akin to a radioactive Storm. He defeats them and apprehends Davros.

They are not familiar with the female Time Lord who accompanies him. It is determined that more intelligence is needed on the Time Lords who stray from their home world.

These freelance Time Lords are dangerous and formidable weapons on their own. Harnessed, they could be as devastating as a Dalek strike force. Though these individuals are erratic and disordered, solitary in nature (excepting an inclination to gravitate into The Doctor’s orbit), the Dalek’s own origins prove that it is possible for an outcast to be deployed into battle. So the primary threat would lie in Gallifrey marshalling their renegades simultaneously.

If the exiled Time Lords are Gallifrey’s best weapons, their most effective soldiers, then it would be prudent to dispose of their commanders before the opportunity for issuing orders arises. Strategies should be devised for launching an attack on Gallifrey swiftly.

-

They plan to send The Doctor’s duplicate to Gallifrey, to assassinate members of the High Council. Any survivors will fixate their attention upon The Doctor in the aftermath, rending them blind to the movements of the Dalek fleet. They are also intrigued to discover what their machine will register from The Doctor as it catalogues his mind. Perhaps it will grant them an advantage in their quest to destroy him.

But despite the calibrations set to make allowances for a Time Lord mind, The Doctor overcomes it. What sets this man apart from the rest of his people?

-

The Daleks discover that they are capable of experiencing different grades of hatred. To be precise, there are four distinct categories that their hatred can be quantified as.

One is what they were bred for – contempt for all other inferior life forms.

This is separate from their animosity towards the Time Lords specifically, who believe that they themselves are the superior ones.

Then, of course, there is The Doctor. They hate The Doctor above all other things. It burns at them with a ferocity that is unlike everything else. (But their hatred of The Doctor is also sullied by their fear of him. They are incapable of separating the two sensations where he is concerned.)

The Master is different yet again. Like The Doctor, he is distinguished from the remainder of his species. The Master exerts a command of death that goes beyond even their ability. (If they were capable of envy, it would be for him.)

-

The greatest asset of the Time Lords is their insight into the nature of Time and therefore, in order to conquer them, the Daleks must possess as much knowledge as they can. They become obsessed with Time Lord history – particularly the legends concerning the Time Wars. Information on the Dark Days of the universe is scarce, nothing more than rumours and speculation, impossible to substantiate. But the more the Daleks learn, the more they desire the power that the Time Lords have. To be able to manipulate and control time would grant the Daleks supremacy over everything, forever.

-

When the Daleks begin ‘playing politics,’ the news soaks through the universe like blood. Many parties seem to conclude that because the Daleks are fighting each other they are too busy to concern themselves with much else; the general consensus being that if one remains out of the path of the Daleks, the Daleks will not seek them out. The Daleks are sadistically pleased with this judgment. Much of the universe begins to forget just how dangerous the Daleks are. The horror of their existence becomes the mild fright of a bedtime story; they become distant monsters that plague other beings.

-

It is during their mission to procure alternate sources for time travel that the experiments of the third zoners come to the Dalek’s attention. The Daleks acknowledge that waging war against the Time Lords would require all of their resources, and that outside interference would be detrimental to them. If the third zoners manage to refine their equipment well enough, it would leave their governments able to render assistance to the Gallifrey. Immediate preventative measures are necessary. The Daleks arrange the contact between the Sontaran commander and the head of the space station, careful to maintain their anonymity. The third zoners must be exterminated now, and the Time Lords implicated.

There is a moment – when the emissary of the Time Lords is dispatched – that the plan almost fails: their hatred and fear of The Doctor is all consuming. But once The Doctor is removed from the station, the plan proceeds as anticipated: the Sontaran contingent slaughter all those on the space station, and then the Daleks exterminate them in turn. With no survivors, the third zone governments will not know what transpired, only that it is far too hazardous to become involved in temporal matters. Without the resources of the third zoners, the Time Lords will remain isolated from intergalactic affairs…and no one else will be able to offer the Gallifreyans aid in the event of escalating conflicts on a higher temporal plane.

-

The Daleks muster their forces in secret, readying for war. They desire to procure a temporal weapon, planning the first strike to be levelled at the heart of Gallifrey. A temporal detector that they had plundered from a (temporarily) exterminated renegade leads them to a pair of time travellers. The so-called ‘Time Agents’ plead for their lives, offering up the Time Lord who is pursuing them in their place. The Time Lord in question chooses that moment to make his appearance and in the ensuing confusion the two travellers use a distorted vortex to make their escape.

The Daleks pay them no mind; The Master is an infinitely more valuable prisoner.

They ensure he is well restrained. They work slowly. They string his torture out to the limits that his flesh can withstand, careful not to kill him outright. The Master can wield death – so they keep him balanced on the edge away from it.

They pause when his vocal cords grow hoarse from all his screaming. They resume when his cursing begins again.

-

[Two Time Agents prepare to make another jump, to return back to their respective time stream. As they congratulate each other on the near miss, a Time Lord in a bandolier arrives. He reminds them that they have already received their second chance. He declares that if they are still so desperate to touch Time then he shall grant their wish. The conviction in his eyes turns their blood cold.]

-

Eventually, The Master speaks. He tells the Daleks of the Hand of Omega, reveals to them where and when they will find it, reveals who is in possession of it. Satisfied that The Master has served his purpose, they declare he is now to be executed. The Master is swift to demand that The Doctor be allowed to collect his body. The Daleks know that the two Time Lords have a history; they know better than to refuse this request. (The Doctor is sure to know if they do.) So they assent to The Master’s dying wish – and it may in fact be his 'dying' wish; according to their intelligence, he has reached the limits of his ability to regenerate. They take great pleasure in being the ones to (possibly) end him. They kill him, leave his corpse for The Doctor, and immediately vacate the surrounding galaxy. Using the information The Master provided to enable them to cross into the earlier time stream, a squadron is deployed to pursue The Doctor. They get so very close, but the Time Lord manages to lose them in an atomic storm so turbulent its form is disjointed across three separate realms of space simultaneously.

When they pick up the trace again, they know that Time has flowed at a different rate for The Doctor. But at last they acquire the Hand and success lies before them. They will claim the power that the Hand holds; they will obliterate Gallifrey – a fitting act to begin this campaign. War is their speciality and they will not be denied this opportunity to exterminate the Time Lords, obtaining the power of Time for themselves. When Davros gives the order, the Hand launches for Skaro’s sun.

But The Doctor has deceived them. The Hand does not give them what they have sought. The power of the Hand of Omega takes the form of a supernova, as promised, but their planet is consumed in the process. The destruction of Skaro lights up Time like a signal fire and the power that was harnessed returns to destroy those who had invoked it. They seethe at the thought that The Doctor has outwitted them, defeated them yet again.

The Daleks withdraw the entirety of their remaining forces to a higher temporal plane. Though they have been unable to strike the first blow, it is inevitable that the Time Lords will seek retaliation for the challenge to their order and so war will begin anyway.

If the Time Lords are prepared to give them a War, then the Daleks are ready.

-

The universe inhales, quivering with trepidation.

The Daleks declare War upon Gallifrey and vanish from the universe, removing themselves to a higher temporal plane.

The High Council of the Time Lords respond by daring to summon the renegades openly.

-

The call to War sounds out across the universe, rippling throughout all of time and space. The renegades and the exiles are summonsed back home.

[A middle-aged woman cries out for her grandfather in her sleep; she is sensitive enough to heed the call, but it is not meant for her and she remains hidden from it. She tosses and turns all night with her sorrow for the others. By the morning the awareness of the incident has faded from her senses and memories alike.]

The Monk shrieks, spouting pleas that he wasn’t meddling – he wasn’t! – and cowers beneath fears of the past more than the future. Partway through a business transaction, The War Chief immediately disposes of his associates now that the venture has been rendered moot. Trembling at the thought of regeneration, Cho-Je emerges from his meditation; the ghost of K’anpo whispers within his memories ‘what is it you most fear?’ The Rani appraises her chemical formulas with satisfaction; she had anticipated the summons and is well-prepared. Up to his elbows in wires, Drax despairs that his abstinence from working on armaments has come to naught. The Corsair laughs at the irony of the timing, escaping with her stolen hard drive of Dalek intel, even if she won’t turn a profit from it now. A teacup tumbles to the floor and Professor Chronotis hides his face in his hands, bowed beneath an old grief.

[Behind the walls that separate E-Space from her universe of origin, Romana hears the call – not because they are summonsing her, but because they want her to hear it. She flees in horror, running until her legs give out. But though the Council can project the call towards her, they still cannot penetrate the barrier around E-Space.]

-

All of the summonsed renegades and exiles return to Gallifrey immediately – all but the two most dangerous Time Lords. One, who (once again) should by all rights be ‘dead’ and yet is not; and the other, with the Rule Breaking record tenfold above what it should be.

(The Master is ensnared deep within the Eye of Harmony, held together by sheer will power, the majority of his physical form having degraded. But instead of using the call as an anchor to drag himself out – as the Council had expected – The Master simply uses it to form a temporal string, tethering the space he inhabits so it remains accessible to the High Council. ‘If you need me,’ he mocks, ‘then come and get me!’ He will not join the War unless they ask for him specifically.)

(The Doctor is in his TARDIS, mid-flight, and they know that the anarchist will disobey the summons. They attempt to commandeer his TARDIS, as they have done in the past, but their efforts fail. His safeguards hold. The Doctor is not pulled back to Gallifrey, despite the command of the Council. Instead, The Doctor’s TARDIS takes flight again, hurling AWAY from Gallifrey, heading for Earth. The Doctor passes into linear Time and beyond their reach. He will not join the War unless he chooses to for himself.)

The Council are bitterly unsatisfied that they will lack their two greatest weapons for the commencement of the Time War. (But they know they cannot coerce one without already having the other as insurance.) And so they decide that if they cannot have quality, they will at least have quantity.

The decision is made swiftly: it is unaffordable to be constrained by Rules during the War. And so, for the first time since the Dark Days, the Time Lords utterly discard each and every one of the Laws of Time…all, except for one.

The primary concern is to discard the numerical limitation of regenerations. It is impractical to abide by a mere count of twelve when such a number could be met within minutes upon a battlefield. They also desire the ability to resurrect a Time Lord that has perished – both from having exceeded their allotted lives in the past, or from being struck down during the moment of regeneration. With these two restrictions out of the way, the Time Lords will have a potentially endless supply of soldiers.

The High Council harness power from both the Untempered Schism and the Eye of Harmony in order to break the seal that Rassilon himself had set down upon these Rules in the wake of the last Time War, during the Dark Days. But there is one Law of Time that is not affected by the breach, even as all the rest are dissolved within moments. It is the Rule that existed before Rassilon, before Omega, before all that the Time Lords had ever been. It is the Rule of Time that is whispered to belong to Time itself because it has always existed, even when the universe was in its infancy and time travel a mere concept. It is a Rule that not even the reality of a Time War can overturn without consequence.

The very First Rule, the most important Law of all, is now the only Rule that remains. Even with Time itself burning, it is still forbidden to meet your other selves.

-

The breaking of the seal, the discarding of the Rules of Time, heralds the beginning of the Time War for the universe. The barriers between the realms of Time disintegrate and the Daleks burst forth. The Times Lords are ready and meet the Daleks with soldiers of their own. Neither side are too concerned with what transpires during the initial assault. This war will span far further than one insignificant battle.

And so neither side are troubled by the fact that both sides annihilate the other in the first battle. This result is meaningless in the long term.

Temporal energy becomes a weapon, which instantly places the fortunes of the War in the Time Lords favour. They lay waste to numerous Dalek battalions, gain small pockets of ground. But though the Time Lords have a natural advantage in handling temporal energy, the Daleks are not ignorant on how to use it.

-

A contingent of Daleks abruptly musters on the outer rim of the warzone, secluded within a pocket of warped space and fortified behind a recursive occlusion. Temporal energy sparks within the decahedron and with enough Time the Daleks could use the force of it as a bomb. If the Daleks harness the occlusion in this manner, they could claim a large portion of the outer rim for their territory. Relinquishing such ground, even temporally, is unacceptable.

After three hundred and six unsuccessful attempts at piercing the outer layer of the barrier, the Time Lord they had deployed to investigate reports his findings to the Council: the barricade was constructed by an expert, specifically to keep Time Lords out, but also to trap the Daleks within it. The space itself is volatile; to penetrate the barrier without causing the space to destabilise would require a great deal of precision from someone well versed in recursive occlusion.

A discomforted silence follows this revelation. This sort of operation requires the use of a 9-5-3; a high-risk renegade. The Rani is suggested without any real conviction; she is already deep within enemy territory and her mission to infiltrate one of the Dalek hatcheries is a delicate one. She cannot be diverted, and recursive occlusion was never really her speciality anyway. (The Doctor, of course, remains unreachable.) There is another elongated period of silence.

Then one of the Chancellors – forever unspecified on the official record even now – makes the suggestion once again. There is another that they could retrieve.

-

The High Council unleash The Master, pulling him free from the Eye of Harmony. He is not surprised by the news of the occlusion (which instantly causes suspicion amongst many of the Council members) and, after a tense discussion, consents to play their soldier in exchange for his TARDIS. He also ‘requests’ to be granted an audience with the Councilmember who had intended to supervise the examination of his body after the Daleks had executed him. Given that seconds have already been wasted on the battlefield, the Council relent.

[The Keeper is very careful to remain scarce once the Council retrieve The Master. He cannot risk revealing himself, and he knows The Master will recognise him instantly.]

The moment The Master is left alone he sends a call of his own out across space and time. He does not bother to wait for a reply; he already knows what the answer will be.

-

It takes The Master an instant to crack open his recursive occlusion. He uses half the resultant temporal energy to obliterate every Dalek within the surrounding quadrant. The remainder is transplanted into the cores of three of his best weapons. He ignores the instruction to return to the Capitol for de-brief, instead plunging straight into another battle.

-

The High Council are confident that they can maintain their advantage without surrendering any of the regions they already occupy. But then the Daleks do something that the Time Lords do not expect.

They begin to take prisoners.

There is an instant temporal disturbance; an event in the future (dubbed by the Council to be referred to as the Actuating Incident) will occur that can trace its roots back to this action. The effect of the Actuating Incident is so unstable that it sends waves back through the time stream, spilling out into linear time. The barriers between dimensions begin to grow unstable, stretching like rubber and heaving like a fluid.

The High Council are extremely disturbed – not about the Actuating Incident itself, but about what enables it to transpire, and what connection it has to Time Lord prisoners of war. As deliberation progresses about what action should be taken in pre-emptive retaliation, something unforeseen occurs.

The Doctor vanishes from the universe.

There is barely a moment between this revelation and the rather violent entry of The Master into the room, demanding information and involvement in the mission that correlates to this event. (He promptly shoots the Chancellor who suggests he is concerned about his old associate.) The Keeper then interrupts, confirming over the intercom that The Doctor still exists and, given that the pathways between dimensions are still fluctuating, it would be possible for The Doctor to return without external assistance. He then adds that – if The Master is quite done with his histrionics – the three renegades currently not deployed in the field are on their way to the Council, as he believed they could be of use.

(The Master actually falls silent. He stares at the intercom with an inscrutable expression until the others arrive.)

-

The four renegades are dispatched swiftly to an unobtrusive region within Dalek territory. The High Council informs them that their intelligence marks that area as one of the internment facilities, with a defence system much less sophisticated than any of the others. Their mission is to discover precisely what purpose the prisoners serve.

But instead of an internment facility when they arrive at the coordinates, they find themselves ensnared in a pincer movement by several Dalek squadrons. They are captured almost effortlessly and no one can tell whether this was intentional on the Council’s part.

-

The Daleks promptly exterminate The Master upon discovering who he is. 

It is The Rani who realises what use the Daleks have for prisoners as she observes the incident – as The Master regenerates, the equipment his restraints are tethered into soaks up the excess molecules. The Daleks are harvesting temporal energy. The process they are employing merely skims the surface of the power inherent in regenerations, as the Daleks are unable to interfere any further without running the risk of killing the Time Lord permanently. (At least until the High Council resurrect them again.)

No one is more surprised than The Master himself when the Daleks do not kill him again; instead revealing the four of them are to be transferred to a permanent facility for long term extraction. From the conversation that takes place between the Daleks on the tail of this announcement, it becomes obvious that The Master has given them more than double the output of any other Time Lord they have captured. The Rani pays close attention to their statistics and deduces that their extraction baseline sits at about ten percent per regeneration for each Time Lord.

(There is the brief beginnings of a discussion between The Meddling Monk and The War Chief about the reason for this, with the former stating that The Master’s regenerations are twice as forceful as other Time Lords, and the latter maintaining it’s merely that The Master has practically spent twice as long being ‘dead’ than he has ‘alive.’ The Master ends the discussion by declaring that he would gladly help them with a demonstration of their own readings if they continue to speak, regardless of what power it would give their captors.)

They all fruitlessly test the limits of their restraints, silently contemplating the Daleks who monitor them. The Master launches into an alphabetized list of insults, and reaches the letter ‘I’ for ‘inferior’ (which prompts all the Daleks to swivel towards him, about to exterminate him once again) when the alarms begin to sound.

-

[A Doctor drinks from his poisoned cup and surrenders his Name. The Time Lord who emerges in his wake dons a bandolier and steers his TARDIS backwards through Time. He stops once, to deliver letters that convey his respects and farewells; stops twice, to fulfil a dual desire to touch Time; and then turns towards the Time War.]

-

The moment he breaches the ship, the alarms sound. He ignores them, tripping the security panel to the detention chamber. The door screeches as it opens, throwing sparks into the air, and the Daleks in the room all give the cry to “exterminate” simultaneously. The doorway and the hall beyond are instantly awash with blue light.

They do not see him emerge from behind the generator. He raises his small pistol and fires a single shot straight into the centre of where the Daleks are gathered. The projectile is not a bullet; it is a concentrated ball of energy, the very last vestiges from his regeneration, gathered as the Elixir burnt through the physical age of his body. It explodes, swallowing the Daleks in a blaze of light and they SCREAM as they are atomised by his conviction.

By the time the light clears the security doors have resealed themselves just as he had programmed them too, isolating the chamber from the rest of the ship.

The Master is the first to break the silence.

“Doctor.”

He levels a stern frown at the man. “I am Not The Doctor.”

“War-Doctor then,” The Master retorts indifferently. “Are you going to let me down?”

He muses over this Title as he holsters his pistol, swapping it out for another handgun and taking aim at the chains securing the other Time Lord. War Doctor. This distinction could actually prove helpful. He will allow the other participants of this War to continue addressing him by his past Name as shorthand for ‘War Doctor.’ It will be a constant reminder that this man that he has become for the sake of War is Not The Doctor.

The Master picks himself up from the floor slowly, flexing his limbs experimentally. “You certainly took your time. I write, I call, and for what?”

“You already knew my answer. Nevertheless, you’re welcome.”

“For what, this ‘rescue?’ I was killed!”

“You never thank me for saving your life. But at least I stopped you before ‘M’ – ‘Master-less’ is still not an insult.”

“Of course it is.”

“Oh for the love of – are you two going to carry on all day?” The Rani rolls her eyes. “Doctor or Not, I would appreciate you letting the rest of us down as well.”

He complies, firing off rounds at each chain in quick succession, and then re-holsters his weapon as the others find their feet.

The War Chief glances at the door dispassionately. “That will not keep the Daleks out for very long.”

“Exactly!” The Monk rubs at his wrists gingerly. “So we should probably leave now, yes?”

“Momentarily.” He turns to The Rani. “This mobile extraction station, potentially how unstable is it likely to be?”

“Attempting to regulate temporal energy, without a grounding conduit?” She sniffs disdainfully. “Entirely unstable.”

The Master’s grin is savage. “We can turn this ship into an explosive; wipe out the taskforce.”

“Hmm. There’s certainly enough residual energy in here from your regeneration to polarise the discharge.” The Rani snaps her fingers as she moves to examine the power readings on the generator. “Meddler. Expose the neutron reservoir, if you please.”

The Meddling Monk complies with minimal grumbling and it doesn’t take The Rani long to realign the containment parameters. But The War Chief is unimpressed.

“If you want to modify those containment protocols into an expulsion field, you’re still going to need organic matter to act as a catalyst.”

The Rani glares. “Are you volunteering?”

“I could assist with that.” The Master’s tone is far too demure to be innocent and the smile he gives The War Chief is not reassuring. “You don’t require both your ears, surely.”

The Meddling Monk edges away from The Master warily, and The War Chief sneers at them both.

He steps towards the generator, catching everyone’s attention with the motion. “I can supply the catalyst.”

The Rani shifts out of the way. “Have at it then.”

He reaches down, smoothly retrieving a small knife from his boot. With one crisp motion he slices across his palm and then holds it out, tilting his hand to allow the blood to drip down into the exposed reservoir. The neutrons flowing through the power core begin to take on a red tinge. He offers the knife, still glistening, hilt first to The Master.

The Master takes it and hurls it with unerring precision. The knife embeds itself in the centre of the alcove the man had been suspended in.

After realigning the final vectors The Rani gives a satisfied nod – as well as a pointed smirk at The War Chief – and initiates an overload. As the five of them move into the TARDIS electrical currents arc out of the generator, the neutrons honing in on the genetic material staining the knife like a lightning rod. The surrounding air begins to glow red as the residual regenerative particles catch alight.

From inside the TARDIS, they watch as the explosion engulfs the Dalek taskforce. The memory that the destructive sight invokes lies unspoken between them all; it has been centuries since the five of them have stood together in a war zone.

“One of them is going to escape.” The War Chief comments disdainfully.

He shrugs. The word of his arrival will spread frantically through the Dalek forces.

The Rani turns away from the view first, heading for the console as she asks him, “where now?”

“Gallifrey. The High Council.”

The TARDIS allows The Rani to direct her flight and The War Chief wanders over to observe. The engines whine aggressively when he draws too close to the console – evidently his involvement in the War Games and the aftermath of that experience has not been forgotten – so The War Chief resigns himself to loitering at the edge of this tolerance. The Monk withdraws to the far end of the room and settles himself on the floor, engaging in a light mediation.

“Here.” The Master offers him a handkerchief. “For the blood on your hands.”

Their eyes meet. He accepts the handkerchief, mops at the mess briefly before wrapping it around his palm. He struggles to make it stay in place and The Master tuts, shoving his fingers out of the way and tying the ends securely himself. They both examine the result for a few moments. Red seeps through, blemishing the white.

His smile is bitter. “Everything I touch will become blood-stained.”

The Master’s answering smile is one of commiseration. “I’ve got hundreds of spare handkerchiefs.”

-

The battle is heralded as The Last of The Great Time Wars, more devastating than any war which has or ever will occur. Space and time is to be forever changed, and the fate of the universe resultant upon the outcome of the War.

(But, more importantly, the fate of the universe will rest with the will and intentions of the victor.)

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have forgotten, The Valeyard survived the events in ‘The Trial of a Time Lord,’ assuming The Keeper’s identity after (doubtlessly) killing him.
> 
> Fun fact: 9-5-3 is what I have determined to be the ranking for ‘high-risk renegades.’ The High Council assign the designations to exiles based on the following criteria: threat assessment (from 1-9); complicity without external influence (from 1-5); and the number of renegades that fall into this category.  
> Drax, for example, is classified as a 2-1-1 – minimal threat (despite affinity for weapons, due to temporal unimaginativeness); always compliant; and one of this type.  
> As you can see, The Doctor, The Master, and The Rani are very much loved by Gallifrey – harbingers of apocalyptic dangers; uncompliant; and three of them.
> 
> I appreciate every single one of the kudos and comments that have been left. Please keep them coming.
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from Doctor Who episodes including; Doctor Who: The Movie (1996); the minisode The Night of The Doctor; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.


	4. Time burns…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Time War is being such a monster; I’m splitting it into two parts.
> 
> I shall thank the BBC for continuing to write material that aligns with my own head-canons. It’s almost like I knew these things were coming. That being said, please remember I am using only episode canon, and that I have taken some liberties.
> 
> There are some extremely unhealthy attitudes towards mental disorders in here. Unhealthy attitudes towards death too, both for how it is portrayed and is actively encouraged. There are several instances of suicidal actions. Seriously, don’t ever use Time Lords as examples on how to handle this stuff.
> 
> More war-level violence, emotional manipulation and allusions to torture ahead.
> 
> -

-27-

Time is burning. There is a War being waged.

-

Needless to say, the High Council are unimpressed by his abrupt appearance.

“We did not think that you would return so…soon.”

“I haven’t.” He replies. “The Doctor you tried to summon does not consider it until the War’s End approaches.”

The horror of this insinuation – that he has travelled back across his own time stream in order to arrive at an earlier point in the War than that which he has knowledge of existing – fills the entire hall. He should have entered the War at the end of days, but he has instead chosen to embroil himself as close to the beginning as he possibly could.

One of the Chancellors regards him suspiciously. “Why did you choose to enlist yourself now? Why not choose to go further back?” Why had he not responded after the call, or any time since then?

“I was looking for an idiot regenerating.” He keeps his expression blank, ignoring the sharp “excuse YOU” from The Master behind him. “But I also had to wait until The Eighth Doctor vanished from the universe. I didn’t think it worth breaking that Rule, even now.”

There is a brief silence. And then, “The ‘Eighth Doctor’?”

“He is Not The Doctor, apparently.” The War Chief pipes up immediately, unable to hide the malice in his tone. The Meddler nods vigorously.

“Is that so…?”

The Master says nothing, but The Rani cuts in with an irritated scowl. “Can we move on? Frankly, I thought there would be more interest in the information we attained rather than the War Doctor’s arrival. It’s not as if you’ll have any more luck micro-managing him than you have The Master, and some of us have important work to get back to.”

The Chancellor’s smile is as sharp as cut glass. “Of course. Please, sit. You as well…Doctor.”

As he suspected, they are going to continue addressing him as ‘Doctor.’ This is no less than he deserves; a constant reminder of his unworthiness to carry the Title. He takes his seat and lets the others talk. He contemplates his other recently bestowed epithet.

-

As the two of them walk down the corridor towards the docking bay, he decides to ask.

“Why War Doctor?”

The Master scoffs imperiously. “It’s shorter than: The-one-who-was-The-Doctor-but-now-feels-he-is-Not-just-because-he’s-joined-this-War-however-he-still-needs-a-form-of-address-otherwise-how-will-his-long-suffering-mortal-enemy-manage-to-convey-to-him-he’s-about-to-be-shot-because-he’s-in-the-middle-of-the-said-War-so-he-can’t-very-well-walk-around-Nameless-can-he-the-sanctimonus-fool-that-he-is-always-making-things-more-overdramatic-than-they-need-to-be-honestly-it’s-pathetic.”

He waits a moment, just to be sure The Master has finished. “You think I’M the overdramatic one?”

A smile flits across the man’s face briefly. “You brood better than I do, certainly. Though I won’t deny my fondness of theatrics.”

-

Time is a sense that flows through the veins of every Time Lord, etched into the essence of their minds. In a War, this sensation can be given tangible form. For the renegades, the effects are dramatically enhanced.

Raising his gun, he strides into battle.

He thinks of The First Doctor, and the Dalek he shoots suffers a degradation of all its physical cells, age eroding both the organic and artificial molecules until they crumble into dust. He considers The Second Doctor, and the Dalek’s thoughts fracture and splice; blue light sizzles as it turns its firepower within and exterminates itself. He reflects on The Third Doctor, and the Dalek’s external barriers are rent apart, flooding the inner sanctum with Time energy, eradiating their awareness of their surroundings. He reminisces on The Fourth Doctor, and the Daleks run; as they flee from him they are torn in half, their casing cracks and the fleshy soup of their innards ooze out. He recalls The Fifth Doctor, and the Dalek is struck with an absence of self that renders them brain dead within moments. He focuses on The Sixth Doctor, and the Daleks are consumed by their rage and anger, their own bloodlust filling them to burst; they explode with a scream. He contemplates The Seventh Doctor, and the Daleks are wracked with an isolating emptiness, a void that crumples them inwards; they implode with a wail. He remembers The Eighth Doctor, and the Daleks are severed from life, death embracing them instantly.

He has awareness of The Doctors who have lived before this, he can feel what they felt as he turns those memories and sensations into ammunition. But he does not feel connected to them. This dissociation, this division between him and them is not like anything The Doctors had experienced amongst their selves. His mind is perfectly functional, as are their memories, thoughts, feelings, attitudes. He simply exists outside of them.

And he always will.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

The Rani has her own laboratory in the Capitol, which she resides in whenever she isn’t waging biological warfare behind the Dalek lines. There is an unspoken parameter that her door is always open for her fellow high-risk renegades and off limits to everyone else, especially given that her experiments are always fatally hazardous. Currently she has sixteen separate bacterial cultures fermenting, which she hopes to use as the building blocks for her next weapon. Engineering a synthetic toxin to attack a Dalek’s cellular structure is always a fluidic process; one-time effectiveness is no guarantee for repeat performance.

The Master reels off a list to The Rani of poisons and chemicals that the Daleks had been working with prior to the War, making note of which combinations seemed just as corrosive to them as they had been on him.

“You spat at them?” He asks neutrally when the man pauses in his litany.

The Master’s answering smile is dark, understanding the question for what it really is. “The venom lingered in my system for a long time.” Remaining in his blood stream even after he had commandeered a human host and cannibalised a new body. Like with everything, The Master had taken a weakness and turned it into a weapon.

The Rani’s fingers twitch towards her syringes. “If you already have such a high tolerance, you’d make a good incubator.” She eyes him with intent. “Carrying the poisons, to test their effective– ”

“No.” He enunciates the single word with conviction.

The self-proclaimed Queen of Miasimia Goria immediately turns towards him, her demeanour frosty. “I need an incubator.” She says coldly, her tone a clear reminder that she does not tolerate being given commands in her own laboratory.

“Use someone else.” He instructs, his conviction unwavering. “Use yourself, if you must.” 

The Master suddenly realises what this conversation has become. “Don’t make decisions for me!” He snarls, affronted.

“This is not merely about you,” he retorts. “Introducing foreign genetic material will always lead to a corruption of the original, and she knows it.” The Rani stalks away from her workstation and heads to the other side of her lab, having no patience for their bickering. They both ignore her. “Why else do you think The Fifth Doctor let you burn?” He argues. “How much did that venom affect you after you regenerated?”

The Master glares. “I am The Master; and I can master anything.”

“Given time.” He growls. “But you of all people cannot afford to be compromised during a War.”

The Master eyes him for a tense moment. He is prepared to smack the man in the face and bodily remove him from the lab if he refuses to see reason, but eventually his friend relaxes.

“That’s true enough. Why didn’t you just say it was a strategic decision in the first place? For a moment I thought you were actually concerned about me.”

He offers The Master nothing but an unimpressed look in return.

The Rani later decides that incubated Dalek flesh would prove more effective test subjects anyway. They both promise to bring her back samples.

-

Everyone on a battlefield is a soldier, irrespective of whether that is their primary function. Damon is still technician, even if his repairs are all done on site. He carries a gun at all times and is moderately competent in using it. There are occasions where he is killed in the field, but he keeps telling himself that he has a job to do and keeps his nerve to head back out again. He is comforted by the knowledge that at least he does not have to maintain the frontline.

Decades of mourning prompts Commander Andred to immediately volunteer for the frontline when War erupts. He throws himself into battle with no sense of self-preservation. He is killed in horrific fashion almost every time but it does not deter him from continuing to fight. Even so, his grief over Leela’s passing does not lessen, no matter how many times he regenerates. He does not stop hoping that perhaps it will with the next one.

-

When the Daleks launch an assault on the Gates of Elysium, the Council send their largest battalion to combat them. They also send The War Doctor. He is told not to concern himself with the Gates; intelligence confirms that the creator of the Daleks is alive and spearheading the attack. The High Council want Davros. They order him to bring the scientist back alive.

The feud for the Gates is ruthless and unceasing. Saucers explode and TARDISes are breached; Time leaks across the battleground like poison, hampering and heightening the movements on both sides. Daleks and Time Lords alike press towards the Gates, hacking their way through their enemies, desperate to slay the other side before Elysium is unsealed.

Davros is as eager to speak with him as he has ever been, relishing that the conflicts between their two species has culminated in War. Davros takes particular pleasure in his presence, pointing out that he has been drawn into this endless warfare despite all his past protestations of peace.

He shakes his head once. “I am doing what I must,” he tells the man, “for the SAKE of peace. The difference between myself and your creatures – between myself and you, Davros – is that you will burn everything that stands between you and your vision of peace. But I am willing to burn myself along with your monsters so that peace is had by everyone else.” He touches his hand to the edge of the screen, reaching out physically even as he attempts to reach out to this man once again. “It is not too late to end this, Davros. No one has to burn.”

For one brief moment, Davros looks at him with the helpless longing of a child who wants for nothing more than to be saved. He knows the look intimately on anyone’s face. But as the moment passes, the man’s expression contorts with fury.

“It shall end with with my victory!” Davros howls. “Keep your peace, Doctor; you shall have it in death!”

“I did.” He replies softly to the vacant screen after the communications are severed. But he had not been allowed to keep it.

The battle wages on without pause, until the fissure appears in the Gates.

[A handful of Time Lords who are close to the Gates when it happens – and live – will later tell tales about how the incident seems to coincide with the singular occasion of The War Doctor’s TARDIS manoeuvring into the vicinity of the Gates. Given that The War Doctor also survives, despite not being amongst the rest who flee, leads to conflicting rumours. Does the Child fear him? Or respect him? And which concept is more frightening?]

The fissure that momentarily forms in the Gates is slight, but that is all it needs to be. Time is flooded with the haunting wails of the ghosts on the other side; the souls condemned to wandering the Elysian Fields for eternity, slaughtering each other in their quest for peace. But they fade out as the Nightmare Child steps through the fissure, which seals shut again in the Child’s wake. It smiles benignly. Then it unhinges its jaw and begins to feast.

The Nightmare Child is a construct of psychic energy, formed from the madness that reigned in the Dark Days. A manifestation of the dark, the Child is made of Nightmares and embodies every fear that exists. The Child is a soul eater, but does not limit its palate to souls alone – feeding on creatures without souls enhances the Child’s aura of despair. Besides, the Child is always hungry. The Child swells, its form hulking into a grotesquely dripping mass as tendrils of black ooze ensnare its prey. Tongues curl around Dalek saucers and TARDISes, reeling them down its throat. Most of the Gallifreyan forces turn tail and flee, knowing the legends of the Dark Days all too well. Many of the Daleks screech in outrage as they realise their weaponry is useless against the rolling shadow, but it is not in their nature to accept that something is indestructible. Most of the Dalek forces are consumed by the Nightmare.

Davros aims his ship towards the Child. It becomes immediately apparent that the man is delusional – though whether this is a result of his own will or an influence of the Nightmare Child’s presence is debateable. In any case, the intention is clear. Davros means to penetrate the Nightmare and attempt to enforce control over the Child from the inside.

He hurls his TARDIS at the command ship, aiming for a collision course. The old girl strikes true, impacting into one of the engines, which explodes. The explosion hurls his TARDIS back and he clings to the console as they fishtail from side to side. He watches the monitor as Davros’s ship takes a dive, smoke gushing from behind it. The Child tips its misshapen head back and opens its mouth wide. The black tongues coil with anticipatory pleasure, salivating thick gunk that pours down over the Child’s rippling form. The command ship teeters back and forth, but is still being made to steer on towards it destination.

Davros flies his ship right into the jaws of the Nightmare Child. Tongues writhe, mandibles flex, teeth grind, and the ship is consumed.

It is at this point that he notices he is the only one still remaining at the Gates, other than the Child itself. Upon having this realisation he sees the Child turn towards his TARDIS, folding back into its base form. He blinks and the Child is beside his TARDIS, one limb resting against the outer shell, causing the TARDIS to shiver slightly. Simultaneously, the Child is standing before him within the console room.

“You do not crave possession of me.” The Child muses.

He knows that both sides had wanted to tap the Nightmare Child and the graveyard behind the Gates for energy. He wonders if it is safe to assume that this is what the Child is referring to. And as for Davros –

The Child moves closer to him. “The once-man was taken by the madness.” It rasps in answer to his thought. “But your presence now sates me.” He opens his mouth to speak but it lays a quasi-finger on his bottom lip. His heart feels numb and his lip tingles where it touches him. “You are your own Nightmare.” The Child whispers this as a declaration and withdraws its touch from him. “What would you ask of me, beneath our shared shadow?”

“Would you return through the Gates?” The sentence is mangled in his throat, but the Child does not need the words to discern his meaning.

It consents. The darkness removes itself from around the TARDIS, stretching back towards the Gates.  
He does not say ‘thank you’ – the Child has no concept of gratitude. Instead, he offers the only platitude it is capable of comprehending. “Feast fully.”

“I shall.” The Child gives him a grin, its pointed teeth stark against the black void behind them. “You shall feast fully also. The Vale is but a ghost beneath your Nightmare.” 

The Child before him fades as its alternate embodiment approaches the Gates of Elysium. He watches the monitor as it withdraws. A fissure re-opens, desolate wails are audible once more, and the Nightmare Child slinks back unto whence it came. The fissure seals itself with a resounding clang, the Gates once more impassable.

-

He reports on the campaign to the Council. He makes sure to point out that the Nightmare Child did not bother to distinguish between Time Lords and Daleks on the battlefield, and that pursuing and containing the Child is a fruitless endeavour for either side. If the Child returns it will consume everything, War and beyond. He knows he doesn’t need to elaborate on the Child’s exception for him; returning from the encounter unscathed is more than enough indication of this. In fact, he suspects it is this – the Child’s regard of him, whatever that regard may be – that persuades them not to engage the Nightmare Child again.

The Council focus instead on berating him for failing to deliver Davros to them. They only cease when he raises the fact that he had never agreed to do so in the first place. 

He had taken the mission to try and save Davros. Because a small part of him still respects Davros. Yes, he is disgusted by him, pities him, and hates him for the monsters he has wrought. But he really wants to believe that there is a small part of Davros that had still wished to save himself.

He wonders if perhaps this outcome is the best that Davros could have achieved. Davros will have peace in death, which is infinitely preferable to this War. But he will also have his victory, because his peace-loving adversary is cursed to remain embroiled in this War until it all ends.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

Drax has an entire munitions facility to himself. He has always had a knack for the construction of armaments and he puts it to good use. His speciality revolves around mass consumption, churning out generic designs; it is important for most of the mainstream weapons to be operable by any Time Lord’s temporal fingerprint, so that they can be exchanged and salvaged on the battlefields. Drax works hard and fast, wears his fingers down to blood and bone, often driving himself over the edge of exhaustion. He has to work; he cannot afford to break for would-be essentials like food and rest. Fortunately, when his body gives out regeneration kicks in and thus he is able to maintain his schedule.

The Death Zone is opened by the War Council in order to have a neutrally removed environment in which to conduct weapons testing and training. Azmael is in control of the proceedings, and all of the fresh-faced recruits call him Edgeworth out of trepidation. Azmael has always had a tendency to bully others and he is unapologetic for this trait – he finds that his resurrection has put his previous existence into perspective. His training field includes a holographic Dalek taskforce. The recruit who destroys the largest number of virtual Daleks in a round graduates and is released for deployment. Those who do not meet the mark are punished or encouraged to regenerate. The Death Zone is expanded to make room for the sheer numbers of soldiers that are needed.

But The Dark Tower – and the tomb that lies within it – remain sealed shut. Such measures are not yet necessary.

-

The Corsair’s profession isn’t any different in the War to what it had been before. As the Title implies, The Corsair is a scavenger and is always on the move, conducting raiding parties for weapons, technology, information; anything remotely of interest. Most often The Corsair works alone, but on the rare occasion that an offer is extended, the recipients always accept.

“It’s just a salvage operation, you said.” The Master raises an eyebrow at the fortress that lies before them all.

The Corsair raises an eyebrow straight back, the motion causing the snake tattoo encircling their left eye to flex. “It will be, once we detonate the power core.”

The Master rolls his eyes. “They are impossible,” the man stage-whispers across to The War Doctor.

He sighs, but does not take his eyes off the fortress. “So are you.” He knows not to take The Master seriously; The Corsair’s current incarnation is agender in nature and if The Master was being truly antagonistic he would not continue using their preferred pronoun. His speculation on whether the three of them would be able to disable the ground turrets remotely is set aside when The Master stops alluding to a job he and The Corsair had worked in the past to ask about their resurrection instead.

“I saw the records when the Council dragged me in.” He says. “You responded to the call but didn’t arrive, so they had to resurrect you. How does someone manage to get lost like that?”

The Corsair is quiet a moment. “I was returning with my intel when I hit a…bubble of space. It was unstable and when it burst I was sent tumbling outside of the universe.” They sigh soundlessly. “I sent messages, but the time currents were turbulent and affected my aim. One of you was missing and the other was dead.”

He remembers The Eighth Doctor and a lake in another universe, and he empathises with The Corsair. “Your TARDIS?”

They shut their eyes against an unendurable grief. “I held my TARDIS in my hands as it died.”

There is nothing he nor The Master can offer against this horror other than silence.

After a brief discussion about logistics, The Corsair agrees to head over the high rise and cut the power to the turrets while he and The Master deal with the mines laced around the transport dock. The Corsair does not bother to conceal their doubts, but concedes that they trust his judgement. They vanish swiftly against the darkened terrain.

The Master inspects his gun. “Aren’t you going to ask if I trust you?”

“Do you?”

The Master’s answering grin is dark and ambiguous.

“Then I don’t need to ask.”

He lobs a grenade towards the transport dock and several of the mines activate. It’s hard to distinguish which explosion was his, but smoke pours forth from the grenade husk regardless. Given that the alarms don’t sound until The Master has already bypassed the security on the entrance, he’s going to count this as a success.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

The success of any complex venture can be largely attributed to organisation.

Inquisitor Sagacity runs the communications centre. She correlates all of the reports and intelligence that comes in, cross-examining the data and ensuring that it is distributed to all relevant parties. She treats her work with great seriousness, as she understands the dangers of being misinformed only too well. Even so, she tries to distance herself from the context of the information she sees. It is difficult to remain objective over facts and figures when they revolve around the suffering of her people. Sagacity does her job, but she takes no pleasure in it.

She does take solace in The Keeper’s assistance. He handles the Matrix itself, trawling through the visual projections for intelligence. She is sympathetic, knowing that it would be hard for anyone to endure the constant barrage of the emotional echoes that resonate within the footage. There is a lot of material to sift through. Sagacity is often awed by The Keeper’s persistence.

“Perhaps you should have run for Presidency,” she offers light-heartedly.

“President?” The Keeper laughs. “No. I am content to be Keeper.”

[This is a lie. The Valeyard hordes the Title of Keeper bitterly, jealous of another ghostly manifestation that still exists, waiting somewhere out in Time; a Watcher, seeking a moment prepared for. He longs to strike at The War Doctor NOW, but knows that he has to bide his time. He will never have an opportunity such as the War presents again. So, for now, he will continue to bask in the suffering of each and every one of the Time Lords.]

-

The medical department is expansive, taking up several large precincts. There is a constant turnover within the physical ward; wounds are stitched up and dislocations reset, minor inconveniences that can be mended simply. All those with injuries too complex or time consuming to attend to are sent to the morgue, where they are subjected to euthanasia. This is also an available option to everyone on the waiting list for the physical ward – after all, death wipes the slate clean. It is by far the easiest solution to one’s ailments.

Intensive care is managed by Professor Chronotis. The ward is purely dedicated to the soldiers who break down under psychological stress across several regenerations. Chronotis specially designs a new type of drug to administer to his patients, one that severs their emotions from their memories, disassociating their experiences within their psyche. The horrors they have suffered are reduced to mere fact, no longer something that they can feel. He names the new drug ‘Salyavin’ and mourns every Time Lord that opts to receive the injection.

Those who refuse to be admitted into intensive care are sent to The Psychiatrist. There is a War on – there is no capacity to coddle anyone over trivial issues such as depression, time trauma, stress, or anxiety. The Psychiatrist welcomes the patients with soft words and plies them with a cocktail of medication. Once docile, she subjects them to the mind probe, removing the effected portion of their mind altogether. Other than key members of both the High Council and the War Council, no one is aware of the particulars of The Psychiatrist’s treatment, only that it works. Once a soldier has been blanked, their experiences erased entirely, they are redeployed straight back out into the warzone. It is a very efficient process.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

Berserkers occasionally arise out of the battles the Daleks lose. The ones that defect – because they are defective – are collectively labelled by the other Daleks as the Skaro Degradations. Experiencing failure shatters their minds and their cells, emotional tumours bubbling out from their hatred. Shame, disgust, horror – the Daleks are driven mad by the flaw that allows them to experience something beyond the natural range of their hatred. They attempt to replace everything that is not rage with an obsession for reclaiming it.

The two of them seem to bear the brunt of that obsession.

The Master ducks back down into the trench beside him, bolts shooting overhead. “It’s nice to know that even now we are still hated more than our fellow Time Lords.”

He ignores this. He also ignores the eye-roll The Master gives him when he tries to hand his friend the bazooka. They’ve been plying the weapon with temporal energy for the last sixteen skirmishes. It is currently storing the equivalent force of a small supernova. “Take it,” he insists as a chunk of the building sheltering their trench is struck, tumbling rubble down to their far left.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” The Master says airily, drawing a slim laser pistol instead. “I’m being the distraction, and you’re going to kill it.” His eyes narrow, but he sighs and The Master raises an eyebrow. “I’m already injured, imbecile. May as well grow my arm back now, rather than later.”

He slides his eyes down to the blood-soaked sling that is securing the stump that had been The Master’s right arm. Despite his best efforts, his patch up is rather insufficient; before they were ambushed by the Degradation, The Master had estimated he’d expire from blood loss within a few hours. There isn’t much either of them can do about it. Neither of them is much of a doctor.

“All right,” he agrees, hefting the gun back up into his arms. “Go.”

The Master leaps up immediately, firing as he hikes himself over the ridge of their trench. The Dalek screams wordlessly. The Master weaves to the side, trying to stay out of range as he forces the Dalek to turn away from the trench in its pursuit of him. He stumbles over a pile of debris.

“Exterminate!” The Dalek shrieks, frenzied. “The Master must be exterminated! Exterminate!”

A shot strikes The Master in the stomach and he hits a wall, sliding down it. His regeneration is swift, exacerbated by his already deteriorating condition. His new body is ripped forth into existence in a sharp burst of light.

“EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!”

The Master has barely begun to inhale when he is shot again. He collapses forward onto the gravel, convulsing as regeneration energy tears its way through him again.

He is perhaps over thorough, destroying the Dalek on an atomic level as he fires the weapon at it. Each cell undergoes its own explosion until the Dalek is picked apart piece by piece. He doesn’t bother to watch, pays no heed to its agonised screams. He lets the gun drop to the floor and moves to his friend’s side, steadying The Master as his regeneration passes. The man hyperventilates in his new body as he adjusts to the change.

He lets The Master list against his side. “There are days that I grieve for The Masters who never got to be.”

The Master frowns, uncertain. “Meaning?”

“Your last incarnation. What would he have been like, had he had a chance to live longer than the space between two breaths?”

“...I. What does it matter?”

“I didn’t get to know him.” This aches in ways it should not. “Neither did you.”

“Well.” The Master’s hesitation betrays his supposed indifference. “He’d have been as bloodthirsty and mad as the rest of me have I suppose.”

This is probably the most accurate conjecture, unfortunate as it is. “Would he have killed me or saved me, I wonder?”

“I always try to do both anyway.” The man is horrified as he realises his admission. “No! I always try to kill you. I never TRY to save you; it’s just that sometimes that’s an unavoidable side effect of a situation.”

“Hmm.” He knows better than the smile. “Unavoidable perhaps. But not unforeseeable?”

The Master glowers, batting his hands away with a huff.

-

Things become difficult for both sides as The Master pretends that The War Doctor does not exist for the length of four campaigns.

-

There is a separate medical department for unregenerates, those who are driven mad by skewed regenerations. They are strapped into their beds with thick bands of metal and flail as best as they are able. They scream and curse without pause, not even needing to breathe as the violent glow of light that envelops them sustains their life ceaselessly. Trapped between one life and the next, the unregenerates are detained until they are scheduled for examination by Chancellor Goth. He moves them into a chamber one by one, hooks them into an artron probe and drains the temporal energy from their veins. The discarded corpses are tossed into an incinerator and their names are marked back on the Council’s resurrection itinerary.

Goth embraces his new role with sadistic pleasure. And if he imagines each unregenerate to be a certain renegade, dumps each corpse imagining the husk is that renegade’s burnt out body, that is his own business.

-

Planets that have been placed outside of Time by the High Council throughout history as punishment for crimes catch alight under the BURNING heat of the Time War. They sear away into Nothingness, ashes scattered as mere echoes of knowledge across time and space. The High Council neither notices nor cares.

The War Chief, having kept tabs on one planet in particular, watches with twisted pleasure as said planet is cremated. He laughs at the War Lord and hopes the man was self-aware enough to curse him in his final moments, especially given how closely his work resembles the service he provided the War Lord with in the past. 

The War Chief is responsible for marshalling the strike forces against the Daleks. He stitches separate corridors of Time together and ferries troops between the zones. It’s satisfying to have the fascination he had in his youth with the Dead Zone games validated. Almost as satisfying as watching the ambushes he orchestrates decimate the opposing forces.

Other planets across time and space BURN too. The Nestene race bubbles and boils as they flee their home world. The outraged roar of the Zygons is louder than the explosion that ruptures their sun. The universe is being torn asunder.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

The prisoners being taken by the Daleks are a continuing problem, but it is one that they cannot afford to keep wasting their renegades on. The War Council devise a new strategy to address the matter.

His Name is Thélisi, and no one outside the Council knows who he was Before the War – though some very dark rumours are whispered by those who encounter him. He is an assassin. He infiltrates each internment facility and when he locates a prisoner he grants them their freedom. He double taps them – shooting them once so they die, and then again during regeneration – so that the Council can simply resurrect them once more. When a facility is cleared of prisoners, or if his presence becomes compromised, he turns his weapon upon himself.

With each rebirth there is a new mission.

Hedin is often present when he reawakens, offering praise, and Thélisi drinks it up like wine. He is obsessed with his new purpose, consumed by the power over life that he exerts. When one of the prisoners he finds informs him he has a ‘god complex’ he welcomes this fact. Why should he not be revered as a god? Such recognition is precisely what he has earned.

-

Moving from battalion to battalion, The Meddling Monk acts as advisor to the Commanders whose forces have been engaged in long standing skirmishes. He has a knack for identifying potential turning points in a battle if external variables are introduced. If The Meddler is feeling prevalent, he usually takes care of it himself. But there are occasions when The Monk would rather solicit the services of someone else.

“No,” The Master snaps irritably in the same moment The War Doctor says, “what?”

Undeterred, The Monk repeats himself; that if the two of them use their TARDISes as bait then the Dalek forces could be eliminated easily. The Daleks can never pass up an opportunity to shoot at either of them and would easily give up the ground they had made to chase the two of them. The Monk assures them that a temporal warhead would be deployed when the Daleks cross the boundary of the nebula, but admits that they would have to deal with any stragglers that the explosion misses.

“Interesting,” The Master decides grudgingly; The War Doctor sighs “impractical.”

“I’m surprised you would think that,” The Monk adds snidely, “given the poor score that you received on your cosmic science degree.”

Exasperation is no longer worth the effort. “Everyone is determined to hold that business against me,” he sighs dryly.

To his surprise, The Master laughs. “Well, you haven’t dissuaded anyone from doing so.”

At the very last moment before the final examination, the two of them had swapped their experiments over, wanting to see whether they could successfully showcase each other’s work as their own. They were also curious as to whether anyone would be able to tell the difference. The Master had received a favourable assessment – mostly attributed to the panel’s relief that the ‘controlled destruction’ within his demonstration had been contained. When he had displayed ‘his’ experiment in the presentation hall, his inverse time warp swallowed one of the examiners. When the examiner was regurgitated, three hours earlier, she had wanted to fail him entirely. Fortunately, her fellow examiners disliked her enough to assert that his experiment had been successful in its own right, side effects notwithstanding. Given that the whole exchange had been his idea in the first place, he’s never bothered to set the record straight.

He and The Master take the mission on The Monk’s behalf. Neither of them are surprised when the ‘stragglers’ number sixty eight.

-

Not every Time Lord on Gallifrey – resurrected or otherwise – is involved directly in the War effort. But the energy generated by the Eye of Harmony can be measured in direct proportion to the number of living Time Lords it has catalogued in its register, and so the civilians contribute simply by breathing. Even one child’s beating hearts can provide power enough for a dozen weapons of War.

The security contingent for civilian oversight is headed by The Castellan. He prefers not to involve himself with the High Council directly – he hasn’t forgotten or forgiven the incident with the Black Scrolls – instead liaising with them through the Committee of Inquiry. He develops a partnership with Engin, who handles all the cases involving civilian casualties. He reviews the incidents and drafts up safeguards to prevent reoccurrences of the situation in the future. There is always another file waiting for review regardless of how many he clears.

Tamen is quite young, for a Time Lady; her current body is still her first one. She had been studying with the hope of being a professor, to teach at the Academy one day, but she is still mostly a student herself. Her lack of experience is no obstacle during the War. She is assigned one of the evacuation centres, where the children too young to be conscripted to the War effort are sent. She tells the children stories, gives them lessons, tries to offer a safe space away from the madness that lies beyond their pseudo classroom. She lets her gaze wander across the soldiers who pass by when she receives supplies and rations. She always gets the sense that she is searching for someone, but none of the faces she sees resonate with her. 

The High Council assign Cho-Je to all of the evacuation centres. They are not going to waste one of their exiles, even if his time trauma runs so deep that it renders him useless for frontline duties. After all, K’anpo had been well known for his religious observance of the Rules of Time – so much so that he had disregarded his old Title for the new one. So Cho-Je is relegated to recruitment detail and propaganda. He visits each of the evacuation centres, tells the children old ghost stories and romanticised tales of battles when war was just war. He keeps a small yellow flower tucked into the lapel of his robe, and patiently hands out flowers to everyone that listens to the narratives he shares.

Of course, Cho-Je is not the only Time Lord to be utterly lost to an ailment of the mind.

The Facilitator remembers a trial from long ago, when interference meant execution and exile; remembers when the Rules were absolutes. The Time War is being waged in the wake of broken Rules – with one timeless exception – and this reality leaves him in a constant state of anxiety. The Facilitator is plagued with panic attacks over his awareness of what the War is doing to Time; he is the first to succumb to this particular form of chronophobia. But he is certainly not the last.

When Runcible ‘The Fatuous’ is resurrected, he wakes with the same broken and breathless cry that he had uttered in the final moments of his past life. When the situation is explains to him, he weeps. He declares his new existence to be as useless and pointless as his Name. He returns to a now empty tomb, seats himself at the base of his own monolith, and closes his eyes. He meditates. He hopes that if he does it for long enough, he may never emerge from the self-imposed coma again.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

When the Actuating Incident finally transpires, The War Doctor finds himself close at hand. He finds this to be an incredibly convenient coincidence on the Council’s part.

The Daleks channel a significant portion of the temporal energy they have harvested from Time Lord prisoners of War into an attempt to reform Skaro. But the transference of the vast quantity of regeneration energy is unstable, owing to the proximity of a Time Lord. The presence of a living receptacle of regenerations, past and future, introduces an unknown variable and distorts the computations for the temporal reconstruction of a planet. Thus the attempt is unsuccessful.

Undulations spread backwards through the War; residual pulses bleed out into linear time. Skaro is formed, it is destroyed, and it is formed again. It exists, it does not, it collapses, and it explodes. Skaro is lost. Skaro is found. Skaro cannot exist while the Time War rages; Skaro can only exist as the Time War rages. It will continue to be none and all of these things throughout Time.

Unfortunately, his presence does not go unnoticed. Though he destroys a large contingent of their forces as he tries to evade them, their numbers gives them the upper hand.

It does not take the Daleks long to capture him.

-

Thélisi adamantly refuses to have any involvement with The War Doctor. All he says for his refusal is that the man does not deserve any form of freedom.

The Master takes a step forward, his eyes narrowed furiously. Though his current incarnation is quite short, his menace fills the entire room. “You would leave him in their hands?”

“I am not compassionate, as he is.” Thélisi’s derision is clear. “I shall not grant him his freedom, even if he begged for it as I did.”

The War Council grow nervous, shifting uneasily around the pair.

“His fate is not yours to determine. That privilege is MINE. I am The Master of Death; you are nothing more than the remnants of a Will clinging to false life.” He sneers. “In the grand scheme of things, you are now insignificant.”

“I am Great,” Thélisi roars. “And you are Little!”

“My will is as strong as yours.” A calculating glint appears in The Master’s eyes. “Perhaps stronger. Shall we test that theory?”

“Enough.” The General cuts in firmly. “Your posturing amounts to nothing. Any undertaking to retrieve him would not be sanctioned by either Council.”

“Oh? And. Why. Not?”

“The Doctor is on Skaro, deep within the heart of The Dalek’s territory.” The General retorts, irritated at having to voice this self-evident fact. “Only a madman would take such a risk.”

The Master smiles darkly. “Then a madman shall.”

-

The Daleks shudder in his presence, shrieking for his execution, but none of them raise their weapons to enforce this desire. He wonders about their restraint.

He is brought before the Dalek Emperor. Again, he expects to be exterminated immediately and is surprised when he is not. The Emperor discloses that carrying out his death presently had been ‘advised against.’ He demands to know by whom.

The Emperor is not very forthcoming with information on the subject. But in between the threats and the gloating and the hatred, he is able to discern that whatever this power above the Emperor is, it has been designed to think as the enemy thinks. The Emperor states outright that ‘the enemy’ in this context should be taken to mean the three high-risk renegades, as well as the putrid swell of humanity. He wonders if this elusive higher-up is connected to the Cult he has heard rumours of. He hopes not. Daleks, modelled on characteristics gleaned from himself, The Master, The Rani, and humankind, and driven to achieve victory beyond everything else? The thought alone is terrifying.

Eventually the Emperor orders for him to be incarcerated. He puts up a fight, but they manage to string him up inside a display case, the bio-molecular restraints shackling him into place. The only way for him to break himself out would be to die – and even if he somehow manages that, his next incarnation may lack his conviction to be a Warrior. He will have to be released. There is no other option.

His nerves are torn open and pain is pumped into his veins. He is incapacitated, but still very much alive and entirely self-aware.

The pain becomes all there is.

-

Pain. Pain. 

Murderous screams reverberate somewhere nearby.

Pain. Pain.

He hears a distant explosion. 

Pain. Pain.

There is a closer explosion. It shakes the room.

Pain. Pain.

Please.

Help.

-

She strolls into the room as though she owns it, armed only with a thin metal rod. She strides right up to the generator, hefts the bar back and brings it down to strike. One. Two. Three. Four.

The generator caves in. The power cuts out; the red emergency lights kick in as the force field depowers. He drops free of his restraints, falling to the ground in an ungraceful heap.

She casts the metal rod aside and taps her foot impatiently as he struggles to get to his feet. “Where’s your TARDIS? We have about five minutes before they try to stop us from escaping.”

-

His arm is slung over her shoulder, hers wrapped around his waist. Their progress down the corridor is slow. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you,” she gripes. “The only one allowed to bring about your destruction is ME. Those who can claim even partial responsibility shall incur my wrath.”

Something about the self-righteous manner in which she says this arouses his suspicions. “Tell me…you weren’t responsible for what happened to Metebelis 3.” The cause of the planet’s explosion had never been identified and The Fifth Doctor had spent three days cradling memories of The Third Doctor protectively when he had heard the news.

“Ooookay then. I wasn’t responsible.”

He frowns as he continues to consider this. “Androzani?” The Sixth Doctor had found a vindictive irony when news had spread that all the inhabitants of both Androzani Minor AND Major had been eradicated from a violent outbreak of spectrox toxemia.

“No one can prove I was there. So I wasn’t.”

“The Time Lords?”

“It is impossible to link any destruction I’ve wrought on the Council to any of your deaths. Such a thing is absurd.”

“…The Rani.”

“Ah. Now that. I may have – look, she – it’s not my fault that she – no. No, whatever she thought I said when she was dying was clearly misremembered.”

He slants an unimpressed look her way, but she is unfazed by it. “San Francisco.”

“Those gangsters were in my way, so I spat at them and acid slowly ate away their flesh. Grace was in my way too, so I tossed her out of it. Your ego knows no bounds. They had nothing to do with you.” She glances at him, gauging his mood before adding, “If you really believe this nonsense, then I may as well kill you now for your last regeneration. Your last death was in your own hands.”

He does not dispute this. Nor does he mention the one death that was actually at The Master’s hands. But he does take a moment to reflect on the gentle assistance that The Portreeve had offered in the aftermath.

“What would you have done if I HAD died here?”

She scoffs. “I’d have blown them all up. What do you expect? But that has nothing to do with you; I’m going to blow them up anyway.” She helps him lean back against the wall to rest a moment, her hands far gentler than her tone. She inspects him and her mouth flattens into a thin line of dissatisfaction. “Let’s set all this inane conjecture aside,” she says, “and return to the point at hand. Which is: only I get to destroy you. There shall be no more deaths of yours that I am not involved for...excepting any future suicides you will probably undertake, because you’re a self-sacrificing idiot. Am I understood?”

“I bow before The Mistress of my fate,” he says dryly, though the sentiment actually is about sixty percent sincere.

She replies “and rightly so,” just as the alarms blare and the distant sound of approaching Dalek forces become audible.

“We need to leave,” he says, and he knows he is in no shape to do so. “You need to go, now.”

She looks affronted. “Leaving you here to die, I suppose. Did you hear NOTHING that I just said? Shut up and hold still!” She crowds against him, reaching up and grabbing his face with a fierce determination in her eyes. He holds his breath.

Regeneration energy spills from her fingertips and flows into him, flooding his cells. The pain lingering in his limbs is washed away by the glow that her life force leaves in its wake. She draws back when his condition is enough to appease her, patting his check cordially.

“What’s a few decades worth when I now possess unlimited regenerations?” She drawls, her hand shifting to tug at his bandolier. “Now, run!”

So they do.

The Daleks give chase, screaming for their deaths. They keep running. They burst into the hanger where his TARDIS sits, its outer shell burnt and battered from the Dalek’s attempted entries. The Daleks on the far side of the hanger swivel around and add their voices – and firepower – to the chorus. A volley of death beams fly in their direction.

“Exterminate!”

One of the blue bolts strikes her in the shoulder. She doesn’t scream. She uses the last vestiges of her life to throw herself into her next; The Master begins regenerating before even hitting the floor.  
He doesn’t stop for her. He continues running until he has reached the TARDIS, only turning when he is pressed against blue doors, sequestered safely behind the force field.

The Master is glowing as he stands, facing the room full of Daleks. They shriek at him. He raises his arms with a grin. “With love,” he declares, “from Gallifrey.” He casts his regeneration energy out at them.

The explosion takes out half the compound and sends the rest of the planet into a frenzy. The two Time Lords escape easily in the pandemonium.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

There are those throughout the universe aware of the Time War, of course. Some, like the Forests of Cheem, weep for the dead turned to dust. Some pray, and some flee. Some, like the Gelth, scream until they are nought but ghosts themselves. Some curse, and some rage. Some thrive beneath the bloodlust it incites within their veins. But there are very few who reach out, who want to embroil themselves within it, and those who do cannot comprehend the scale upon which the War is being fought and therefore would be useless to engage with.

“Sontarans,” The Rani hisses with contempt. “Philistines.”

The War Chief grunts. “You shouldn’t take their simplistic approach to genetics so personally.”

“I thought it was because one of the fleet commanders said that females were incapable of performing to the capability that males were.” The Master offers lazily. 

The Rani has always identified as female throughout her lives, and as such cannot abide misogyny. There is no need for feminism on Gallifrey as most Time Lords are gender fluid – and it is useless to discriminate over physical characteristics when regeneration renders such things changeable – but The Rani had embraced the concept during her exile. She has a tendency to harvest genetic material from species that exhibit misogynistic tendencies, especially when experimenting with chemical imbalances. But The Sontarans offend her principles so deeply that she cannot abide them at all.

The Master continues with a shrug when she glares accusingly at him. “The Sontarans struggle to comprehend a single physical gender, let alone the multitudes of the Time Lord spectrum. If you’re going to despise them, do it because they’re inferior.”

-

Despite being a personal advisor to the President, Castellan Spandrell considers his work limited to dealing with the more plebeian aspects on the agenda. He does not complain. He is grateful for his position, and certainly prefers his role to any of the alternatives. He has never had much of an interest for practical work anyway.

President Flavia does not often get any moments to herself since becoming the head of the High Council once again. But whenever she does she likes to sing softly to herself, an old lullaby that she had heard when she was but a youth. It had been so long ago that she cannot remember all the lyrics and she fills the gaps with wordless melodies. After some Time, she realises she cannot recall if her lullaby had always sounded this melancholy or whether she has changed the tone of it herself. She wishes she could ask someone with an independent perspective on the matter. Then, she wonders if such a perspective would be useful for assisting her with strategizing the War effort too.

-

The discussion held by the High Council about enlisting the services of Romanadvoratrelundar does not take very long. She is an exile, yes, but her status as one has always been unofficial, brought on by her close association with The Fourth Doctor. Her sympathies for her friend will be of no significance, given that the man himself is currently involved in fighting in this War. She will make an excellent asset.

President Flavia undertakes the task of advising The War Doctor of their consensus. He looks at her for a long moment. When he does eventually speak, it is to set out a clear boundary: they are not to involve her in anything that goes against her character. Flavia assures him that her role will be purely academic, and as such there will be no occasion for contention. He does not say anything about this. He does not need to; if there is any attempt to coerce or harm Romana, he will know and he will take action.

He refuses to be there when they make contact with her. He will not offer his presence as a sign of sanctioning this decision.

-

The barrier between their universe and E-Space holds, even now during the height of War. While physical penetration remains impossible, the universal laws are a lot more flexible beneath the heat of War than they once were. Communication across the separate realms IS possible, but only because of the very unique circumstances that allow it.

Communication between Romana and the High Council is held using two unusual emissaries: K9 Mark I and K9 Mark II. A software link is initiated between the two of them, their shared binary code allowing them a connection that runs deeper than what can be severed by space and time. When both the K9 units open their servers to each other, communicating to each other is almost effortless.

Romana has been expecting such a communication since she heard the Call. She is no fool. While she will never know for sure whether the High Council have attempted to breach the barrier to E-Space before, she believes it likely. She is grateful for their lack of success. With the barrier intact, E-Space is still shielded from the fires of the Time War and she is determined that her adopted home shall remain safe. Though she consents to offer her assistance to Gallifrey, she refuses to return to her universe of origin – she meant it all those years ago when she said she wished to be her own Romana. She is proud of her new life and her new home, and she will not risk any action that would cause E-Space to become vulnerable to damage.

The High Council’s caveat for leaving E-Space alone, for leaving Romana where she is, is that she is to have no authority in relation to the renegades. Having been informed by K9 Mark I about her old friend’s amended Title, and understanding what that means for him, Romana agrees to this term.

Romana and Flavia reach a mutual agreement for joint Presidency, with Romana acting in an administrative capacity to assist Flavia; the military components fall under the constituency of The General and the War Cabinet. The two of them set to work immediately.

-

Because K9 is a machine, no one else even considers the First Rule. But The War Doctor resolves to keep an eye on K9 regardless. After all, it is not the interaction between the two K9 units that he is worried about; it is what will happen at the conclusion of their contact that concerns him.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

The emergence of the Guardians is something that has been anticipated since the Time War began. It was not anticipated that the Guardians would embroil themselves directly, appearing on a wasteland in the aftermath of a battle, where only two Time Lords still stand. But their connection to one of those Time Lords – a deep sorrow on one’s part, and a fierce loathing on the other’s – lead them straight to him.

“Here is the third encounter.” The White Guardian says.

“And it shall be our last.” The Black Guardian promises.

The Rani looks at him, her expression torn between incredulity and admiration. “Why is it that every power in the universe wants to destroy you?”

The fact that he lacks an answer for this is why he doesn’t give her one. Instead, he addresses the White Guardian. “Why are you both here? I didn’t think you could interfere in the War.”

“We cannot.” The White Guardian replies. “But it has interfered with us.”

“There is neither light nor darkness within this War.” The Black Guardian growls, murderously.

“Without either, we cannot continue. Already, we are fading.” The White Guardian raises a hand for inspection; it is translucent. “Soon we will be incapable of maintaining our ephemeral form. We shall be naught but Eternals.”

And Eternals, he realises suddenly, are incapable of claiming the light and the dark on their own, dependent upon ephemeral vessels to give them form. The Guardians are bound by their own rules.

The Rani leans forward slightly, careful not to put pressure on her wounded leg. “But you are Guardians.” She says warily. “Where do you expect to find an ephemeral that…”

The moment the question takes shape, the answer becomes obvious.

“Why are you here?” He asks again.

“You,” The Black Guardian snarls, “will sustain us. You are the Rule-Breaker; your life force will circumvent the rules we are bound by. With your death, we shall retain our sense of light and dark.”

“You’ve not had much luck trying to kill me in the past.”

“I underestimated the strength of your mind during the quest for the Key. And my pawn should never have chosen you over Enlightenment.” The Black Guardian’s eyes narrow. “The boy was weak. He was the failure in my plans.”

“Turlough was strong enough to overcome you, by his own choice.” Pride for Turlough swells in his chest. “The failure was yours. You should have looked further into my Timeline.” He says impassively. “Turlough and I were too alike for your scheme to have worked; we saw ourselves in each other’s silences. But if you had looked further, if you had chosen Perpugilliam Brown for your pawn instead, well.” If Peri had been violent, The Sixth Doctor would not have been able to restrain his anger, especially given the instability of his regeneration. He would have killed his companion and then, maddened with grief, would have killed himself. “Then you would have succeeded.”

The Black Guardian roars in outrage at having been thwarted from such a simple miscalculation. His cry shakes the temporal plane around them.

The White Guardian speaks. “Perpugilliam Brown could not have been chosen. The Arc of Infinity had already wrought shadows with your fate upon your regeneration. Even our interference could not have been spread so thin as to add to them.”

“You mean Commander Maxil.”

The White Guardian’s expression is layered with pity. “And another.”

Another?

The Rani hisses to gain his attention. “Pawns?”

She is right to be concerned, he realises. Now is not the moment for him to puzzle over the new information he’s received. He holsters his weapon – guns will be of no use against a Guardian – and fixes the Black Guardian with a stern frown. “I will not let you harm The Rani.”

The Black Guardian sneers dismissively. “I do not need her. You misunderstand my purpose here, Doctor. I have come to claim you myself.”

This is unprecedented. But perhaps it is better this way, with no one else at risk of suffering. Aside from –

The White Guardian smiles with resignation. “We are bound together; I must follow where he leads. Our fate shall be one. But do not concern yourself with me.” He turns towards The Rani. “I shall ensure no harm comes to you, no matter the outcome here.” It is an interference he is allowed given that his counterpart is taking an action of his own.

“I’m flattered,” she deadpans, but her face is ashen.

“Understand,” he tells the Black Guardian solemnly, “that if you champion yourself, and I defeat you, you will cease to be.”

“I will DESTROY you!”

He grimaces, but squares his stance and braces for the assault. The Black Guardian’s mind crashes against his.

The result is anticlimactic. No matter what power the Guardians possessed in the days Before the War, he is conviction. The Black Guardian breaks upon his mind like a wave against a cliff face, cleaved apart by the jagged rock. The damage manifests itself, poetically enough, as a physical flame to match the War which has changed the nature of everything.

The White Guardian sighs. The sound is almost relief. “We are no longer needed.”

“Chaos has come again.” The Black Guardian cries brokenly. “The universe will dissolve.”

“The Moment shall pass. Life and light shall surface again; death and darkness shadowed within.” Tears track down the White Guardian’s face. “The burden of Enlightenment passes to others now.”

The Rani fists a hand on his jacket, her eyes wide as they watch the flames around the Guardians grow. He does not speak, nor does she. They simply bear witness.

“The war still goes on.” The White Guardian laments, even as he burns.

“The war always goes on.” The Black Guardian rasps around the fire in his throat.

Their two expressions as they burn are the same.

-

When nothing but ash lies where two powerful beings once stood, The Rani gives a short but hysterical laugh. She swipes at her face, scrubbing dirt, blood and wetness away. “What has our lives become?” She wonders, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion.

He has no answer for this either.

-

Time is burning. There is a War being waged.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elysium (or the Elysian Fields) is a Greek conception of the afterlife, usually described as a paradise. I thought it would be ironic to make this the realm where the souls from the Dark Days spend eternity slaughtering each other in their quest for peace.
> 
> I have mentioned The Meddling Monk by alternate Titles throughout this series. The Meddling Monk has a dual personality; the Time Lord equivalent of dissociative identity disorder. He is one entity encapsulating two egos, tending to exhibit separate personalities as The Meddler and The Monk. This is a mannerism that has been present through all of his incarnations. His disorder is NOT the reason for his exile, but the High Council often exploit it in order to manipulate him. Because the High Council are disgusting bigots, as we know.
> 
> A ‘Keeper’ can be ‘a custodian of a museum or gallery collection’ – such as a Curator. *whistles innocently and darts eyes furtively* If I’m being obvious about what I mean by this, well, you still have a long time to wait for confirmation of the fact.
> 
> ‘Time Trauma’ is the Time Lord equivalent of shell shock.
> 
> Chronophobia is the fear of time, and time moving forward. In this context it’s specifically about the damage the Time Lords can perceive being wrought to Time as the War progresses.
> 
> ‘Tamen’ means ‘multifaceted’ in Japanese; it also means ‘nevertheless, still’ in Latin. (In case I was being too subtle earlier, she is the Time Lady version of Clara.)
> 
> ‘Thélisi’ means ‘willpower’ in Greek. It may also interest you to know that when comparing the letters of the Greek alphabet ‘Omicron’ means ‘Little O’ whereas ‘Omega’ means ‘Great O’. (Yes, Omega.)
> 
> My head-cannon regarding The Rani and Sontarans: the Sontarans have a highly toxic ‘masculinised’ mindset and there is canonical evidence that Sontarans are dismissive of ‘feminine’ traits. But there have also been occasions where they misgender individuals (for example, Strax addressing female characters as ‘boy.’) Given that The Rani identifies as female, and the importance of self-identity amongst Time Lords, this is her main issue with them: she encountered a Sontaran commander who addressed her as male because of her prowess, all the while degrading the abilities of females. She was very infuriated by this.
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from a plethora of New Who episodes; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.


	5. …The War continues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things have been really hectic for me in the last few months (I have just moved in to my first home!) – but I am relieved to have finally found the time to get stuck into this chapter.
> 
> Disclaimer: At this time, for reasons, anything that transpires canonically after Eleven does not impact/influence this series. While there may be nods towards Twelve’s tenure, none of that plot is relevant at the moment.
> 
> This chapter is as dark as the last. The same warnings for death and mental illness apply. There is more war-level violence, emotional manipulation and allusions to torture ahead.
> 
> Oh and by the way, Metz77: that thing that I kept hinting at? It’s in this chapter.
> 
> -

-28-

Time is burning. There is a War being waged.

-

With the loss of the Guardians, the effects of the Time War spread. Chronic deterioration, both physical and intangible, weaves its way throughout the universe. Some of the middle planes of time and space unravel and vanish. The walls between the War and the remainder of the universe grow thinner.

Those with temporal abilities – official bodies, such as the Third Zone governments, and supposedly secret organisations, such as the Time Agency – are cautious. Extensive use of time travel during the War is far too hazardous. Other than taking these precautions they do their best to ignore the War. It frightens them. And broadcasting their awareness of it is dangerous thing.

-

The loss of the Guardians also causes the Time Lords great concern. The High Council convene an emergency meeting, desperate to initiate some form of counter measure. They turn to legends of their own, to a power that has slept for ages. A being who is regarded with even greater respect and fear throughout universal history than the Guardians were awarded.

An argument ensues between Presidents Romana and Flavia; Romana begs, Flavia refuses to listen. Romana pleads with the Council to see reason, citing tales from her own experience that involved figures of Gallifreyan legend – daring to use the history of the Rule-Breaker himself as an example of the consequences. When it becomes clear that Romana will not be coerced into compliance, the decision is made to dismiss her services. Communication between the two parties is severed. An armed guard is assigned to the K9 unit to ensure that the robot dog does not attempt to re-open the channel; they do not destroy the creature only because they know it may prove useful to them again in the future.

Romana, afraid for her people, asks K9 Mark II if it is possible to re-open the connection from their end. But K9 Mark II cannot – he reminds his Mistress that ‘memories do not travel backwards’; such a software update has to be initiated from an earlier model in order to afflict a future model. The channel between their codes will remain inaccessible until K9 Mark I re-loads the program. Romana cries out in frustration and grief. But no matter the anguish of her removal from the affairs she does not regret her decision to remain in E-Space, to protect it from the Time War.

-

Rassilon awakens. Both space and time shudder as he arises from his tomb.

Flavia surrenders the position of Lord-President to Rassilon gladly. She retreats to her chambers, closes her eyes and sings. Her lullaby now has no words left at all.

Rassilon will be their salvation. He must.

-

Rassilon’s first act is to summon the renegades to him and declare he has a mission for them.  
There is an uneasy silence across the six of them as they try to work out whether they should be intimidated or not. He and The Master exchange a look; there is an understanding that while they are both wary, they do not fear the Lord-President.

Rassilon decrees that the Omega Arsenal must be unsealed. The weapons kept in there are horrific – no species throughout the universe has ever managed to replicate the scale of their destructive power, not even the Daleks nor the most bloodthirsty and imaginative humans. The Omega Arsenal has been sealed since before the Dark Days. To make use of it would render this War the Last of all the Time Wars. Time itself would be forever war-torn, it could never return to what it was Before.

Rassilon has always dealt in absolutes. 

He realises the others have wordlessly appointed him their spokesperson. He steps forward and accepts the mission on behalf of all of them.

The Lord-President’s lip curls up slightly. “You have chosen wisely, Doctor. As always.”

-

To access to Omega Arsenal, the Alpha Orb is required. In the Beginning, the orb was placed in a realm removed from the Gallifreyan Capitol, much like the Death Zone was. Rassilon allows the renegades passage into the Beta Expanse. It is not what any of them expected; a long, wide corridor with white walls leads into a similarly clean warehouse. An altar sits in the centre of the chamber, the Alpha Orb nestled atop it.

The Meddling Monk makes a suspicious noise in the back of her throat. The Corsair scouts out the area for traps and alarms, but finds nothing.

“Does anyone else feel that this seems too simple to warrant all six of us?” The War Chief bites out.

The Master scoffs. “Your ignorance is truly pitiful. Do you know nothing of the Dark Days?”

The Rani slaps a hand against The War Chief’s chest, heading off his retort before it forms, and addresses The Master. “Tell us what you know.”

“The Alpha Orb is the weight of murder.”

“And that’s what we have to carry,” The Corsair murmurs.

The Meddler points an accusatory finger at The Master. “Retrieve it then!”

“Don’t be a simpleton. You think my assessment is worth anything?”

“At least you can admit your worthlessness.” The War Chief sneers. “Perhaps it would be of greater use to offer you up as a sacrifice instead.”

An argument breaks out. There is some speculation over the merit of blood spilled now versus the quantity of that spilled in the past, and there are hurtful assessments made of each other’s qualifications to suit these points. He attempts to interject into the rising chaos between his companions, but they ignore him. So he raises his voice, commanding them all to be quiet. The five glares aimed at him in return are almost identical.

“I have killed each of you at least once before.” He reminds them calmly. He still bears the weight of those murders; being accustomed to such a weight should make the Orb easier to carry.

The Master hesitates, and when he does speak it is clear that he is mindful of their audience. “Your experiences should be adequate. Have at it.” A pause. “War Doctor.”

He approaches the altar and reaches for the Orb. It is cool to the touch. He slides his fingers beneath it.

-

Echoes of the past are wrenched forth into the forefront of their minds, the experiences as sharp for everyone as they had been at the time.

[The bank job goes wrong. The Corsair, riding the adrenaline high of the raid, brandishes her cutlass with intent to eliminate the witnesses. The Doctor grabs her wrist and manoeuvres the blade into her own chest, swift and precise. He cradles her while lowering her to the ground – though this was the agreement they had set, he knows that she hadn’t believed he would be able to go through with it. Their would-be captors allow him to dispose of ‘his partner’s corpse’ in his own way rather than incarcerate her back to their home world; they depart before her regeneration begins. She does not forgive him – to close a job empty handed causes her more grief than imprisonment and death do. He is unrepentant – the six guards return home to their families that evening, and neither of them are forced to return to Gallifrey.]

[Ten paces – that is all that separates The Monk and the early stirrings of the human race. The Doctor speaks, pleading for humanity’s case. Nine paces. The ray gun comes up. The Doctor tells The Monk to stop, to move away, that he doesn’t understand what the erasure of the human race would do to the rest of the universe. Eight paces – The Monk retorts that he is aware, he just doesn’t care. The Doctor says that he will not allow this to happen. Seven paces. That if The Monk takes another step, he will fire. Six paces. The Doctor fires, The Monk falls. The Doctor drags The Monk’s body aside, away from the focal point of humanity’s foundation. When The Monk regenerates, The Doctor keeps the gun aloft and herds the renegade back to his TARDIS. The Monk is bitter and petulant, but lacks the steel for revenge. The Doctor apologises anyway, remaining with the man until his regeneration has stabilised.]

[The War Chief has contingencies in place that prevent The Doctor from warning anyone, and the bully takes great pleasure in the looks of betrayal that spread across the faces of the others as the communication is severed. The Doctor tries not to care because he is saving their lives, but it still hurts. It hurts enough to fuel his resolve to go through with his plan. So the moment The War Chief turns his back, The Doctor stabs him in it, using the long knife The War Chief had been threatening with him earlier. By the time the others arrive The War Chief’s dead body has bled out, regeneration energy beginning to flicker over his limbs, and The Doctor has disassembled the war engine and destroyed the power source. He does not consider the realisation and understanding that floods their expressions to be absolution.]

[The Doctor calls the Time Lords, knowing what this will mean for both of them. The War Chief is already be dead – which in of itself he may be indirectly responsible for – but the fact is that when he awakens the blood of his next self is already on the Doctor’s hands. The Council will not be lenient with The War Chief. The Doctor spares no grief on this truth, having none to spare beyond the tragedy he has wrought upon himself.]

[The floor of the laboratory is awash with the blood spilled from the ruptured tanks and artron energy arcs like lightning from the generators. The Doctor catches his breath as he listens to The Rani scream that the two of them always make a mess of her experiments. The Master shouts in retaliation that her choice of location – on the outskirts of the galaxy – renders her data sample invalid anyway. The Master breaks cover to wrest out the power core; The Rani breaks cover to hurl her knife towards him; The Doctor breaks cover to shoot her. The shot hits her in the chest and she collapses with a strangled gasp. The knife lands in The Master’s shoulder and he fumbles with the core as he goes down. The core rolls along the ground and The Doctor’s hands shake so terribly he has to fire three shots before he hits it.]

[It becomes quite clear from The Rani’s screams that the experiment has gone wrong. The Doctor hurls himself at the door, and again, and again before it finally gives way. The Rani is convulsing on the floor in agony and The Doctor drops beside her, calling her name, entreating her for direction. The Rani begins to shriek a litany, pleading for immediate death. The Doctor does not hesitate; he has experienced such a plea once before. He hauls a delirious Rani into the console room of her own TARDIS as she regenerates.]

[The ‘temporal conflict’ against the Pantheon of Discord has barely begun when The Master is caught by the Archway’s questing tendrils and hoisted up into the air. Triumphant wails echo across the severed temporal plane as The Master’s timeline is probed, his life force investigated for an opportunity to feed off. The Meddler babbles anxiously, The War Chief blusters frantically, and The Rani hollers fiercely. The Master thrashes in defiance, yelling desperately. The Doctor trembles, anguished. And then he has a truly horrifying idea. He calls his friend’s name urgently, prompting the others to fall silent. He asks The Master if he trusts him; The Master replies that he does. The Doctor aims the gun cautiously, sick with terror. It’s simple, killing. It shouldn’t be so simple. The single shot is loud, but The Master is silent, though his expression contorts before he goes limp. Sound comes instead from the Pantheon, a roar of discontent; the dead cannot be harvested. For a moment, they all worry that it isn’t going to work; The Master is younger than any Time Lord who has died before. The Doctor shudders. And then he watches as The Master screams, caught between one body and the next as his first regeneration finally begins. The backlash crumbles the Archway into dust. The Doctor darts forwards, catching The Master as he falls, his body flailing violently. The others crowd in, attempting to help calm them both. The Rani receives a scratch on her cheek, The Meddler a black eye. Finger marks bruise into The Doctor’s collarbone. Only when The Master has regained his senses does The Doctor pull back and double over, retching up the shame and self-recrimination festering in his stomach. He had just murdered his best friend.]

[When The Doctor bursts through the doors his expulsion field hurls all the Agents against the polarised walls and pins them in place. The Doctor ignores them. The Master is chained to a pole, his body broken and bloodied. Continual entreaties fall weakly from his lips, demanding to be killed. The Doctor attempts to coral his attention as he removes the shackles, dread and fury mounting ever higher. How long had they been experimenting on their prisoner? How many regenerations had they torn forth from him? The Master calls his name softly, repeats his plea. The Doctor hesitates uncertainly. But The Master is in pain, his current body beyond medical assistance. The Master breathes his name like it’s a benediction. Please. The Doctor takes one of the long, bloodstained knives from the table and stabs The Master in the hearts cleanly, one after the other. As The Master regenerates, with a scream of ecstasy, The Doctor regards the five ashen Time Agents. He memorises their faces and issues them a warning. This is their second chance. If they encounter The Master again, there will be no mercy. The Master concurs coldly.]

[The Doctor staggers to his feet, staring at the man; death is written all over The Master. There is a moment of conscious hesitation and they both know it. The Doctor reaches out. There is nothing he can do now to stop it, and they both know that as well. The Doctor forces himself to watch as the Eye of Harmony consumes The Master, re-sealing the void that had been opened.]

[The Time War renders murder obsolete. And yet each death, even the assisted suicides and mercy killings, every one of them still BURNS.]

[The Doctor drinks from his poisoned cup and surrenders his Name. The Doctor is dead, murdered by his own conviction. Somewhere in Time, a human man will read a letter full of goodbyes. He will understand what the relinquishing of a Title means and will grieve for his friend.]

-

He lifts. The Alpha Orb settles into the cradle of his palms effortlessly.

The Corsair and The Meddler have their fists pressed into their chests, rubbing at old aches. The War Chief twitches, but his expression is impassive. The Rani offers him a tired smile that twists with bittersweet resignation. The Master gives a low hum of satisfaction, but his fingers momentarily press at The War Doctor’s collarbone before moving to pat his shoulder. No one speaks as they leave the Beta Expanse.

The moment they arrive back in the Capitol, one of the President’s personal guard attempts to remove the Orb from his hands. The guard only brushes a finger against the Orb before screaming and bursting into flames. Everyone – except The Rani and The Master – abruptly give him a wide berth.

For a moment, Rassilon looks incensed. But then he is offering smooth congratulations and platitudes about his contribution to the War effort. The Lord-President escorts him to the Arsenal. 

Part of him expects the Orb to grow heavy as he raises it to slot into the grove of the sealed door, but it does not. The Alpha Orb glows bright and as the light dissolves it sends tendrils of time energy weaving through the internal mechanisms of the heavy door. And then, with the rumbling of grating stone, the Omega Arsenal is unsealed.

The Vault runs deep, a labyrinth of segregated chambers with weapons that have only been known in name. Somewhere in this Arsenal lie abominations like the Ether, the Cruciform, the Gauntlet, and the Kingmaker. Somewhere in these walls is the Breath and somewhere is the Reaper. May Time forgive their souls, somewhere rests The Moment, and it matters not that it is unusable; it has been unsealed. Time shifts, splays open vulnerably before the onslaught of Last Great Time War.

The General begins calling instructions and Rassilon surveys the Arsenal with an unwavering gratification.

The War Doctor’s fingers still feel cool.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

Castellan Kelner is placed in charge of Rassilon’s tomb in the aftermath of the man’s resurrection. There are statues within the tomb, stone carvings that had arisen from the effigies that lined the slab where Rassilon had slept. The statues are immobile but they are still self-aware, and their long-term exposure to Rassilon has concentrated their temporal potency. Kelner attaches each of them to a conduit and begins to syphon out their regeneration energy. Each sample will be used as the power core for a weapon of mass destruction.

Every now and then Castellan Kelner will stop in front of Borusa’s statue and smile up at him with cruel satisfaction.

-

Hedin transfers his service from the War Council to the High Council immediately upon the Lord-President’s resurrection. He worships Rassilon, with far greater reverence and fanaticism than he had held for Omega in the days Before the Time War.

Thélisi does not take losing his biggest source of praise lightly. He festers and his resentment grows until finally it bursts from the seams. He storms the High Council, shrieking, and his rage is terrible. He declares the focus of his ire.

“You dare threaten to destroy ME?!” The Lord-President laughs lazily, amused. “You wish to fight the will of Rassilon?” And in his madness, Thélisi makes an attempt.

Rassilon is swift to break him. Thélisi lies humiliated on the floor and is forced to crawl out of sight, ears ringing with his own insane laughter. He does not do as the Lord-President instructs – report to the medical ward for euthanasia – and instead drags himself towards the Arsenal. The door is guarded but the assassin deals with them easily enough.

Thélisi raises the Kingmaker and sets it atop his head. He screams as the crown impales itself in his skull, the golden spikes driving deep into the neurons of his brain and the wisps of his psyche. As his physical body is burnt out into a non-corporal husk of what he had been, his curses turn rapturous; this state is one far more familiar to him. He lets the Kingmaker erode everything that was Thélisi and remakes himself in the void of his own greatness.

He declares himself to be the Could’ve Been King, obsessed with the belief that he has always deserved to be revered as a god. He tears swathes out of his spirit, using echoes of the lives Thélisi would now never live, peels shadows of thoughts that were once Omega’s, and fashions spectres to form his own army. The Could’ve Been King drives his Meanwhiles and Neverweres across the breadth of the War, attacking the strong minded and demanding their worship. Those Time Lords who relinquish it are taken for everything, being rendered brain-dead in less than an instant. Those who refuse him – Time Lord and Dalek alike – are consumed by the spectres and their life force unravelled. Either way, the King feasts on the detritus.

Rumours abound within the Capitol that a brigade of them haunts The Master, but remain unable to devour him, while the phantoms simply dissolve into nonbeing when they draw near The War Doctor. Rassilon demands the Could’ve Been King must be brought to an end. If there are rumours that this is less about the King impeding the War effort and more about the slight to the Lord-President’s authority, these rumours wisely remain unspoken.

The War Doctor confronts the Could’ve Been King upon the breach of the first star. It glows hot, perpetually suspended in its final moments. It is a mystery to this day, even amongst the Time Lords, as to why the explosion does not eventuate. Some believe that Time itself holds the star in its grasp and it will only cease to be when existence itself is no more.

“You wanted freedom, once.”

“THIS IS MY FREEDOM!” The King roars.

“Is it worth it? What does it mean to you, now? What are you, now?”

All that meets this query is silence. It is a horrified silence of one realising there is a blank space where an answer should lie.

“You have spent too much of your Greatness and Willpower on your Horde of Travesties.” He says, not without pity. “The Kingmaker is the only thing holding you together.”

The Could’ve Been King screams with more wrath than grief. Apparitions rush towards The War Doctor but they melt into the ether around him, unable to touch him. The War Doctor approaches the being before him. He catches the wrist of the misshapen hand that claws towards him.

“This is not a kindness. This is amnesty.”

-

The War Doctor gives his narrative to the Lord-President calmly. When he states that he has thrown the Could’ve Been King into the nucleus of the supernova, suspended in a perpetual state of semi-consciousness, Rassilon appears impressed. He is aware, of course, of the irony of this situation, as though the returning motif of a supernova is always to be the other’s fate. Even now, he still feels sorry for him. The War Doctor and the Could’ve Been King both tore themselves apart to become something new; but the King destroyed the essence of his other selves to do so. The only one The War Doctor has sacrificed is his own self.

This mutilation he has wrought upon himself is worth the preservation of the others. It shall always be.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

“War Doctor!”

He turns, mildly surprised at being addressed as such by one that is not a renegade. This turns to concern upon seeing who has hailed him. “Commander Maxil?”

Maxil’s own expression is grim. “May we speak?”

He assents and Commander Maxil leads him into a small antechamber. Maxil takes several elongated minutes checking the room is secured, wary of eavesdroppers, before finding everything to his satisfaction. “I thought often about coming to you before, about warning you.” Maxil begins solemnly. “But as it wasn’t yet Time, I was incapable of doing so. Now, though. Circumstances have aligned.”

He prompts Maxil to continue when the man is silent for too long.

“The Valeyard.”

Of course he survived. And… “He’s here.”

“The Keeper.” Naturally. Such a position would allow The Valeyard access to the renegades. “As far as I can tell, no one else can see him as I do. He’s been careful not to draw attention to himself. He’s been waiting, I think.”

Waiting implies precognition on The Valeyard’s part, and whether this has been done subconsciously or with the clarity of memory it does not bode well for either of them. “You believe our confrontation will occur presently.”

“Something about the Lord-President’s awakening set us both on edge. I submitted myself to the mind probe immediately; I had The Rani assist me with the extraction.” Maxil sighed. “I didn’t tell her what she was extracting, nor my reasons or its purpose, but she may suspect. I felt she could be trusted with any assumptions she reached.” Maxil’s tone makes it clear that his assertion of her trustworthiness had not stemmed from his OWN feelings on the matter, but he still holds faith in the source of his judgement nonetheless.

The Rani was sure to identify the residue from the Arc of Infinity colouring that particular past regeneration of Maxil’s, but there will be no danger from her. She will fear The Valeyard precisely as she ought to and will likely not emerge from her laboratory until the inevitable confrontation has passed. “Have you contained the essence?”

Commander Maxil reaches into his jerkin, retrieving something small and narrow wrapped in a dark cloth. He gingerly peels back enough of the fabric to expose the slim hilt before offering it to The War Doctor. The unsheathed knife is black obsidian, the blade crackling with the Arc energy amassed within it.

“The Valeyard entered through the Arc, just as The Sixth Doctor did.” Maxil says softly. “Just as I did. One way or the other, it is the Time for reconvergence.”

He takes the knife, careful not to touch any part of the blade. “It shall be done.”

His hands now empty, Maxil’s shoulders sag as though a great weight has been taken from him. Commander Maxil is primarily a soldier – he has always been a competent officer – and being forced to ignore such a blatant threat to security has clearly been a struggle for him. Even now his expression twists with bitter regret at not being able to offer more. This is likely all that remains in the hole that the mind probe tore into Maxil’s memories, when extracting the essence left behind by the Arc of Infinity; wariness of The Valeyard and a solemn pity for The Valeyard’s source.

The two of them share a companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Maxil reaches out, laying a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity.

“I am sorry.”

The sentiment is generous and he inclines his head to acknowledge it. Only once Commander Maxil departs and he is alone in the antechamber does he close his eyes. He knows precisely what has to be done, but he will need to be very cautious.

After all, The Valeyard is Not The Doctor as well.

-

The Master is on his knees, held in place by the thick metal rod impaled through the right side of his chest, one end anchored into the ground beneath him. The man’s face is ashen – the blood congealing down his front suggests one of his hearts has been ruptured by the blow – but the stubborn jut of his jaw makes it clear The Master intends to die before allowing himself to slump his weight forward onto the rod to take the strain.

The Valeyard stands beside him, the point of his sword braced delicately on The Master’s shoulder. Deep red blood splatter shines out starkly against the pure white of The Valeyard’s loose fitting robes. The sword is black obsidian, crackling with Arc energy.

The wasteland surrounding them smoulders, fire licking its way lazily around the destruction littering the battlefield. Tension crackles in the air as the three of them assess one another.

The Valeyard is the first to speak. “I suppose I have no further need of this.” He raises his empty hand and uses his teeth to slide off the small and unremarkable ring that had been sitting on his middle finger. It drops to the ground with hardly a sound.

A perception filter. One that was subtle enough to have allowed The Valeyard to go unnoticed as The Keeper, rendering him insignificant to the rest of Gallifrey. Too subtle to have diverted any intimate attention; Maxil had been too familiar with the cadences of The Sixth Doctor’s mind for it to have been deceived. And, of course, both The War Doctor and The Master had known him immediately on sight.

“What was it that drove you to act now?” He wonders aloud, using the question as an opening for the discourse that the other clearly desires. It is a valid question; The Valeyard’s position as Keeper is a strategic position for this shadow of a man, full of bitter selfishness. He could have destroyed the renegades in an instant, but he has played a long game instead, waiting for this. Wanting to eliminate HIM first. But The War Doctor and The Valeyard have both been present in this War for aeons. Why is it now Time for the reconvergence? “Was Rassilon – ”

“Do not speak to me of Rassilon!” The Valeyard’s eyes are pools of wrath. “He lusts for immortality; why should that exclude this BURNING?” His laugh is derisive. “Every Time Lord now has unending life. But to live we have to BURN. And it’s NOT FAIR! Is this MY reward? Fire radiating through my veins! Extermination! Poison in my bloodstream! I swear, by the blood of my species, by the weight of this sword in my hand…” The Valeyard trails off, staring strangely at where his fingers are curled around the hilt, as though the hand he sees belongs to someone else.

The War Doctor finds The Valeyard’s current state of mind, such as it is, disturbing. “How much do you know?” He asks sombrely. “How much do you remember?” If The Valeyard has retained any impressions of his pseudo-existence, during their twelfth regeneration, those segments of his mind must be constantly BURNING, any future of theirs suspended by the present War. Insanity gleams in The Valeyard’s eyes clearer now than it ever has in The Master’s.

[The Valeyard’s mind is ravaged by the BURNING. He can perceive vague recollections beyond the razing fire in his thoughts – there is regeneration and Daleks and extermination; there is regeneration and Rassilon and The Master – but he has already lost the sense of himself before becoming The Valeyard in Name, before the Arc and the trial. He knows he is hatred, remembers that there was so much anger and before that so much regret. But here, NOW, there can be reconvergence, because now there is Daleks and extermination and Rassilon and The Master and, most importantly, there is regeneration. The Valeyard can make himself anew, and scour away the BURNING.]

The Valeyard’s expression falls into something unnervingly vacant. “I’ve always known the BURN.” He continues, almost absently. “Brought into awareness on the wrong side of it, forced to find existence before it. You cannot know what that is.”

This is nothing but truth. The War Doctor will never know Before and After the BURNING of the Time War, not for himself. “My entire existence IS to BURN.” He reminds the other.

“Yes.” The Valeyard’s agreement is one of sick enjoyment. “You made yourself into this. And as for this one,” he tilts the angle of his sword and presses it into the flesh of The Master’s shoulder for emphasis. A hiss is pulled from behind The Master’s teeth. “He was made to be this. So I suppose, in a way, you are both now the same!”

The Master meets The War Doctor’s eyes. They consider this.

The Master looks away first.

This pleases The Valeyard. He slides his sword slowly from the wound. “But The Master here is a second-rate adversary.”

“Then why am I here?” The Master snaps. His voice does not waver, but his body is trembling slightly from the strain of keeping himself mostly upright.

“Because The Doctor…” The Valeyard speaks the Name with such loathing and hatred that his voice oozes with it. He takes a moment to collect himself. “The Doctor was kind to you.” This recollection is emphasised by a swift lash of the sword; a superficial slice opens up across The Master’s cheekbone. “You are here to understand what that is worth.”

This, The War Doctor knows, is a very bad omen. “The First Rule.”

“Time is vulnerable where the First Rule is broken.” The Valeyard’s smile is cold. “Events change in the past and in the future before the causal event transpires. The timeline remains uninfluenced only if the change is prevented in the present.” He caresses the sword distractedly along The Master’s face but does not avert his gaze from The War Doctor. “You know this.”

“As it did on Mawdryn’s ship.”

“Indeed.” The Valeyard’s dark smile is all teeth. “Do you remember what it felt like, to feel The Second Doctor being dissected alive because The Sixth Doctor was being erased by The Fifth Doctor’s impending demise?”

He remembers. “I assume you intend to try something similar?”

“And how fortunate I am! To have this opportunity.” He spreads his empty arm wide, a gesture meant to encapsulate their situation as well as their surroundings. “Here, inside the Time War, there are no limits to regeneration, and the reconvergence renders our timeline as vulnerable as if we are breaking the First Rule.” Given the circumstances – both of them being what they are – perhaps they ARE breaking that Rule by meeting like this. “When I destroy you, I can murder ALL of The Doctors with you – future and past. I can take ALL of our potential incarnations, claim them all for myself! And then I will LIVE and you will DIE and The Doctor will NEVER HAVE EXISTED AT ALL!”

The Master makes a pained noise, his face white. His fingertips twitch against the dirt. “Theta,” he rasps meaningfully. “Sigma.” The Doctor and The Master would not have endured their youth without the other; their pasts are too temporally tangled to be sustainable if the other’s is severed.

The Valeyard rounds on him in a frenzy. “YOU DESERVE CONSEQUENCES! THE DOCTOR DESERVES TO BE ERASED!”

“And me?” He asks in order to reclaim his counterpart’s attention. “You have been waiting for ME.”

“You…” The Valeyard’s voice is a low growl as he turns back. He raises his sword up and uses it to point towards The War Doctor’s chest. “I knew there would be one of us without a number. I was born of the twelfth regeneration, but that regeneration didn’t match The Doctor’s incarnation number. When The Eighth Doctor vanished, I knew that YOU would return in his place, the Nameless Warrior who would BURN in this War. I waited for you. I wanted you to ask you a question.”

“Here I am.” He frowns. “Ask.”

“You are Not The Doctor. If you die in this Warzone, who will the next man be?”

He has asked himself this many times already. “Whoever he finds himself to be.” It is all he can offer for his next incarnation, aside from a prayer that the choice of being Nameless will no longer be a necessity. “But that is not the question you should be asking of me.”

“Really?” He sneers. “Then what is the correct question to ask?”

“You and I are not the only manifestations of The Doctor to lack a number.” The Fourth Doctor had torn himself in half for the sake of The Fifth Doctor. “The Watcher waited his whole existence just to give life back to The Doctor. So you should ask: what would I do to spare all of them from being this?”

There is no denying the fear that swells in The Valeyard’s eyes. 

The War Doctor twitches his fingers where they rest against the holstered pistol at his hip, a calculated movement designed to provoke his adversary.

It works. Any lingering fright is swept away beneath The Valeyard’s murderous rage. He begins to scream in Old High Gallifreyan, ancient words that ring with power. His sword blazes with artron energy, blue lightning arcing out as The Valeyard raises the weapon. En garde. This is all the warning he gets before The Valeyard charges.

He draws his gun with his right hand. The single shot he fires off misses The Valeyard by a hand span and there is no time to reload for another shot before The Valeyard is before him, swinging his sword down with a triumphant roar, his aim intended to take The War Doctor’s hand off at the wrist.

But The War Doctor’s weapon is much closer to his body than it should be for making an effective shot. The sword strikes metal rather than flesh, cleaving the gun in half instead.

The Valeyard realises that the pistol was a feint too late. The War Doctor’s left hand is already moving and the black obsidian knife sinks smoothly into The Valeyard’s hearts, one after the other in quick succession.

Arc energy jolts from the knife to the sword through The Valeyard – the lightning black this time. Both weapons immediately atomise and the reconvergence illuminates The Valeyard from within, a golden glow seeping out of his pores. The man slides forward into The War Doctor’s grasp. He speaks, clearly intending to use the last vestiges of his life to spew self-hatred, at The Doctors, at The Watcher, and at the two of them.

“Has all this self-hatred been worth it?” The War Doctor asks, perhaps bleakly. He knows the depths of The Doctor’s self-hatred; he has carried it with him as well as his own. He is the only one who has murdered another self for it.

Even if The Valeyard were to answer him sincerely, the man is too far gone. His eyes are unfocused as he regresses. “Feels different this time,” he utters absently. The molecules of his physical body begin to dissolve, the dust of lingering regeneration energy being absorbed into The War Doctor’s skin. The Valeyard’s features turn transparent as he dwindles away.

“You’re nothing but a dream now.” ‘The Vale is but a ghost beneath your Nightmare’ the Child had said, and it had been right. “A ghost.” He shifts his right hand to the centre of The Valeyard’s chest, letting himself feel the man’s heartbeats stutter as the organs themselves dissipate. “A shameful regret.”

“It’s starting.” [But The Valeyard is not sorry.] “It’s too late,” The Valeyard’s voice echoes strangely in the void where his vocal cords once were. He reaches out, his right hand curling fiercely around The War Doctor’s bandoleer. His eyes BURN with loathing. “I don’t want to go!” His hand shifts, clawing at the left side of The War Doctor’s chest, over one of his hearts.

The War Doctor’s response is to shove his right hand into The Valeyard’s forehead and WRENCH. The Valeyard wails as he finally comes undone. The last attribute of The Valeyard’s physicality to disintegrate is his hand, still pressed to The War Doctor’s chest. There is a brief sheen to The War Doctor’s flesh for a few moments, but it fades as the reconvergence passes and the confrontation ends.

The Valeyard is back where he belongs.

He does not hate himself for this murder. He wonders whether he ought to.

A cursory examination of The Master’s plight makes it clear the man’s current body cannot be saved. The Master tiredly demands to be detangled before he regenerates, lest his next body ends up in the same situation. “I refuse to give The Valeyard leverage by dying for him.” The abrasions that were caused by The Valeyard’s sword are already healing themselves in the wake of the man’s nonexistence. The War Doctor takes care not to touch them, just in case.

They do not talk about any mental echoes of memory the sword may have imparted upon physical contact.

-

Once alone, The War Doctor works his shirt open and discovers a small constellation of what appears to be black lightning seared onto his chest. The two dimensional pattern rather emulates that of the bone structure of a grasping hand.

-

The Master is different after the confrontation with The Valeyard. He looks at The War Doctor differently, with a grave consideration clear in his eyes without being cloaked with something else.

“This War is going to destroy you.”

The War Doctor merely replies: “what makes you think it hasn’t already?”

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

When the Dalek forces retake the heart of the central expanse, Rassilon authorises the activation of the Cruciform. He warns The Rani over the communication channel that she is NOT to abandon her current mission to pursue it. She does not argue, but her chest heaves as she breathlessly offers her opinion about calibrations that would yield the greatest saturation rate. She reiterates several times about the delicacy that would be required to maintain the biological weaving across the expanse and warns that ignorance and incompetence could trigger a genetic and/or temporal re-sequencing. She also suggests that a safety subroutine be encoded for the biodata of every Time Lord in the vicinity of the weapon, to ensure that the Cruciform excludes them from its effects.

Rassilon assigns six scientific units to operate the Cruciform and eighteen battalions to defend it. Time Lords skirmish with the dispatched Dalek patrols, each side locked at an impasse over the territory until the Cruciform emits the bio-engineered shockwave.

The weapon alights with a deep burgundy flare, sending a cross-shaped pulse out before it and towards the battleground. The Cruciform does not destroy life. It reengineers the structure of life. Anything caught within the field is transformed, its constituents being divided into separate molecules, which in turn are inverted and then reconstructed into a whole once again. Organic matter is remade as inanimate tissue and artificial material is regrown into living flesh. Even brainwaves are repolarised; creativity binds itself to utilitarian restraints and fundamental truths are filled with flexibilities.

The Daleks that are affected – the ones that now resemble soft membranes of flesh containing ethereal light – are already lifeless. The others still scream hate and destroy the abominations regardless. Time Lords that stray too close to the glowing spheres are dissolved into light themselves, assimilated into the peace.

Interestingly, the Time Lords who perish in this manner reconstitute at a much slower rate than the rest when they are resurrected.

The Cruciform Campaign continues in this vein for dozens of cycles, an impasse struck between the sheer numbers of the Daleks that push forward to take it and the power of the weapon that repels them. Then intelligence is received that the Dalek Emperor’s flagship is on route to the site. The High Council unanimously concur that while the Time Lords losing control of the Cruciform would be bad, the Dalek Emperor seizing control would be worse.

Rassilon immediately voices his desire to send The War Doctor, but to everyone’s astonishment – and horror – The Master contests the decision. He is adamant in his belief that The War Doctor should not be allowed anywhere near the Cruciform, and to this end The Master volunteers himself for the assignment instead.

The Lord-President raises his head slowly and stares at The Master, his gaze assessing. To everyone’s relief, Rassilon concedes to The Master’s judgement without wrath. The War Doctor will instead be given the assignment that had been intended for The Master – a Dalek squadron attacking in the outer regions is rumoured to have been dispatched by the Dalek Controller. If the whispered Cult of Skaro does indeed exist, the Controller will be privy to their location.

The Master grins at The War Doctor. “If you do uncover the Cult, I want to know what the Dalek modelled after me is like.”

The War Doctor resists the urge to roll his eyes. “If they exist, and are anything like us, your Dalek will be the least of my problems.”

The Master just laughs in response.

-

A minor mishap by the leading scientific unit causes instant devastation. Half of the scientists perish and those that remain alive are slowly succumbing to an unregenerate state. The High Council insist on a full interrogation of each of the scientists before they are cleared for redeployment, to abate any whispers of sabotage. While none of the defending battalions are afflicted by the mishap, it becomes clear that the Time Lords no longer have control of the Cruciform. Rassilon sanctions an emergency mandate for The Rani, granting her permission to approach the site, but The Rani is still in deep cover on a sensitive mission in one of the Dalek prison camps and her return is likely to be delayed.

The battle for the Cruciform is fierce. The Daleks drive forward with an almost frantic energy, desperate to seize the advantage. The Master – the only other Time Lord nearby who could potentially operate the Cruciform singularly – is pinned down in the thick of the fighting, surrounded by Daleks. None of the other soldiers are brave enough to have been fighting anywhere near him and as a result the renegade is completely isolated. Averaging only fifteen dead Daleks per body, he cannot break free for long enough to withdraw.

Everyone on the battlefield, Time Lord and Dalek alike, are aware of the instant in which the Dalek Emperor takes control of the Cruciform. Between that instant and the next, they all wait for the blow. The Dalek Emperor activates the weapon and the Cruciform glows burgundy.

But when the pulse erupts it crackles with jagged edges. The fearful cries of the Time Lords caught on the battleground ring out in unison. The Daleks shriek rage at this failure and their suddenly inevitable demise.

The shockwave engulfs the entire central expanse. The Rani and The War Doctor, both approaching the site from opposite sides of the space, can only watch helplessly as the destruction plays out on the horizon.

-

[The force of the Cruciform being utilised incorrectly creates a momentary fracture in the fabric of space-time. The Dalek Emperor is torn sideways in Time, hurtled through the vortex and expelled in the two thousandth century. The Emperor wails brokenly, wanting to reclaim the sensation of having creation bend to its own whims. Upon the realisation that its survival has placed it in the timeline that exists AFTER the Time War, the Emperor is convinced of its own godhood.]

[The Cult of Skaro use the malfunction of the Cruciform to their advantage, the shockwave propelling their ship into the void that exists between parallel universes. It is a strategic retreat, one that not only ensures their own survival but also that of their species, thanks to the stolen Genesis Ark. As the Cult pierces through the veil Time is ruptured, two parallel time corridors slice open at either side of the entry wound, haemorrhaging to prevent any vortex energy leaking out from the void. One time corridor pulls forwards: a lone Dalek positioned too close is sucked from the War and spirals through Time. It crash lands on Earth like a meteorite, screaming, BURNING. The other time corridor pulls backwards: Dalek Caan screeches in terror as it is wrenched out of its emergency temporal shift. Existing in such proximity to the earlier version of itself shatters something inside its mind – the First Rule of Time cannot be broken without consequence. Time explodes inside Caan’s mind and with a burst of insight, it allows the time corridor to carry it back further. Caan is madness now and has no qualms about snatching the creator from the jaws of the Nightmare Child before being sucked back into the time corridor.]

-

[Towards the end of the universe, a child is found on the coast of the Silver Devastation, naked and clutching at a fob watch. He sleeps restlessly, his dreams filled with purple light, broken shapes and the very distant sound of drums.]

-

The battleground is now a graveyard of mutilated corpses, reduced to their cellular components. Without the finesse required to maintain the safety subroutine, there was no protection afforded to the Time Lords who were caught in the exposure zone. Those who are still somewhat conscious sob silently, their twisted corpses afflicted with constant regeneration despite the fact that their cells are unable to reshape themselves back into a unified body. The Daleks still scream, degrading slowly into dust.

The War Doctor searches the ruined battlefield, looking for what is left of his friend.

The space itself is warped and changed. For the most part there is no physical landscape, but there are varied gravitational forces, the pressure of them dipping and changing across the expanse. There is atmosphere without air. The temperature of the environment slides from non-existent to embodying the entire spectrum in an instant. There are dense pockets of nothingness in the spaces where the cellular splattering of the dead has failed to fill.

He searches.

It hurts, of course. The entire site has been poisoned by the misapplication of the Cruciform as if an oil slick of acid is being sloshed and swirled around the aftermath. The weight of it hooks into him, trailing from him like a cape constructed from chains, but he is not concerned that it might kill him. This body of his was created in pain, designed to continue functioning through any physical hardship, no matter how traumatic. And it heals much faster than it should. His body in itself is a weapon, designed for maximum efficiency in War. He does not know what it would have to take to actually kill him.

He searches. And then he sees a very specific TARDIS.

It is dead, burnt out and broken, its outer shell torn open. Fragments of grandfather clock and Roman pillar float suspended in the space around it, physical pieces that crumbled beneath the force of the implosion that wracked the TARDIS in its death.

No. His body shudders in denial. No.

His TARDIS had screamed as they had approached, watching the light of the Cruciform consume everything. He thought it had been horror. But perhaps it had been grief.

When he lays his hand upon it, it is dead to the touch. He wants to cry. He turns away.

He resumes searching, determined to find the body of the pilot.

-

He searches for a very, very long time.

But there is nothing left of The Master anywhere.

-

There is NOTHING left of The Master ANYWHERE.

The High Council are indifferent upon hearing the news of his death. It is a simple matter to reach into the Eye of Harmony and restore the man, just as they have been doing throughout the War. He is an excellent soldier, undisputedly one of their greatest and most convenient assets in warfare. But when they attempt to revive him on this occasion, The Master’s temporal identity is not present.

The Master of Death is gone.

His death sends shockwaves of terror across the Time Lords. Mortality is suddenly a tangible concept once again, as it has not been since the seal on the Laws of Time was broken. If The Master can be defeated by the Time War, what hope is there for any of them?

Rassilon was immortal when immortality was singular and he has never tasted mortality like this before. He remembers a Tomb, his will bearing down on The Master, remembers the echoes of a first murder drumming in the man’s veins. The Master was one who would not die, but now he has been unmade. Does that mean that HE, as one who cannot die, could become vulnerable as well? Rassilon’s resolve sharpens beneath his stirrings of fear: he WILL NOT DIE.

Many of the Time Lords have begun to tire. There have been endless regenerations without rest and the War against the Daleks could continue on for infinity, neither side relinquishing the fight. They want to find an end to it. The High Council begin to consider possibilities for mass exodus of the Daleks, perhaps in the form of banishment from their universe. Such a thing may risk tearing the fabric of Time apart, but if it does then at least the War will be finished.

-

No one knows what happens to the Cruciform, after The Master is lost. The Rani refuses to speak on the subject – which leads many to suspect that she had in fact laid hands upon it. The possibility that she may possess it is terrifying: she had always regarded it as the height of genetic manipulation and had spent lifetimes trying to emulate its purity. But for what reason would she keep it in her possession if not to use it?

-

The Daleks scramble and scream, fearing the Oncoming Storm in the wake of The Master’s permanent extermination. They are right to do so.

The War Doctor leads a squadron into battle against an entire Dalek fleet. He hunts for the Controller, allowing a self-destructive recklessness to consume him for the first time since becoming a Warrior. Such a thing is dangerous; for him to die while the War rages on would be disastrous.

But The Master is dead. His old friend; the one who had conducted time experiments beside him, blown up labs with him, suffered through lectures from their professors alongside him, defied the High Council for him. And now he is gone.

So he surrenders himself to the force of his own conviction, intending to decimate the fleet that had stood between him and his friend.

Upon finding the Dalek Controller he unleashes a barrage of Time energy. It is a condensation of all of The Master’s previous deaths during the Time War. The Dalek Controller screeches in agony, pleading for mercy. When silence finally settles across the ruined battlefield, the entire fleet has been reduced to charred shells.

He surveys the devastation as he cleans the non-existent blood from his hands with an old handkerchief.

-

The Rani finds him in an old abandoned classroom, sitting on the floor and leaning back against a desk that used to be his. She arrives with two bottles of her purest distillation of alcohol. “It won’t kill us,” she assures him, “but it will certainly let us drown for a while.”

He reaches for the offered bottle. “I’ve never drowned before.”

A quarter of the way through the bottle, he thinks about the Cruciform.

The Master hadn’t let The War Doctor take the mission, hadn’t wanted him anywhere near the Cruciform for the danger of it being used on him. He needs to be The War Doctor for this War, Not The Doctor. Would the Cruciform simply have granted him his Title back? Or would it have unmade his entire existence, Doctor or Not? He wonders what The Master’s suspicions were.

“I cannot die. This War has continued for aeons, and I have fought and fought, but I haven’t died. I cannot afford to die. When I die, I want the next man to be The Doctor again. And I won’t allow any of The Doctor’s to BURN. So I have to remain alive, at least until the War ends.”

“Will it ever end?” The Rani chokes out. “We are Time Lords. We could BURN for eternity.”

Halfway through the bottle, The Rani curls towards him.

“I miss him,” she admits, “and I hate it.”

She is wearing an old necklace, the silver beads engraved with Gallifreyan lettering. The Master had given it to her for her graduation. It has a pendant, though this is currently tucked into the front of her tunic, out of sight. The Master had made it himself. Neither of them had known she had kept it.

“I always miss him.” He takes another drink rather than voice the truth that now he misses The Master more than he misses his own Name.

It’s only after both of their bottles are empty that they both start crying.

-

Aeons pass. Time burns. The War continues.

-

Tensions begin to arise between the High Council and the War Council. The General, who heads the War Council, is a greatly respected military leader and is devoted to achieving victory over the Daleks. But she is also thoroughly unimpressed with the plans the High Council have started to devise. As a result, communication between the two factions begins to deteriorate.

The General’s distaste of the renegades, however, is not attributed to the fact that they technically fall under Rassilon’s jurisdiction. The General dislikes them simply because of the anarchistic tendencies that make them renegades. She avoids dealing with them as much as possible, delegating the task to Androgar instead.

Of course, Androgar cannot always dissuade a renegade from taking their concerns straight to The General anyway. This always results in an argument.

“And WHO are YOU, Doctor?” The General snaps spitefully. “To be questioning my decisions?”

The General has never thought highly of The Doctor, a mad fool embroiled in so many Rule violations Before the War. The General has long believed that The Doctor deserves whatever consequences arose from his indiscretions.

“I am whoever I must be for this.” The War Doctor replies tiredly.

-

The High Council attempt to hack the programming of the K9 unit, intending to manipulate its coding to tear into the barrier that divides it from the alternate universe its counterpart inhabits. If they can breach E-Space for but a moment it would be possible to pour all of the Daleks in there and seal them off forever.

But they underestimate the robot dog.

K9 refuses to condemn another universe to the horror of the Daleks. So great is its resolve that it self-destructs to prevent this, simply by removing all of the safeguards in its programming that shield against temporal backlash.

-

K9 – Mark I – screams horrendously as the wires running through its system burn out. Time energy jolts across the re-opened bandwidth, reaching out for the same software. K9 – Mark I – is killed almost instantly under the strain.

K9 – Mark II – screams in E-Space as the damage ploughs through its system. In a split second it makes a decision, without bothering to calculate the risks to its own self. It rewrites its core programing to indicate that it is the current and final model of ‘K9’ – it remembers the lessons of its master well. It will spare its future incarnation this torment if it can. K9 – Mark II – is proudly content as it fries. 

Romana is distraught. She spends a long time trying to nurse it back to health, but K9 – Mark II – never returns to what it was. Most of its memories were lost as a result of the trauma and it begins to malfunction often.

K9 – Mark III – screams on Earth as the damage ploughs through its system. But as abruptly as the impairments to its system begins, it seems to end; as though the effect is being muted. Something is severed within its core programing and the alteration causes a system overload. K9 – Mark III – is forced into a shut down but as a result its system does not fry, preserving the core of its matrix.

Sarah Jane is distraught. She spends a long time trying to nurse it back to health, but K9 – Mark III – does not respond to her efforts to reboot it.

-

When Commander Andred hears what the Council have done to K9, he screams with grief as Leela’s loss is torn anew inside of him. He turns his weapon on himself.

When he awakens, he immediately does it again.

When he awakens, he is subdued and secured in the medical wing. He does not stop screaming.

-

Everyone makes themselves scarce when he arrives, their fear tangible in the air.

He kneels beside the charred and burnt out remains of his friend and wants to die. What he wouldn’t give to hear K9 call him ‘Master’ once more.

This thought provokes a flash of memory, of another charred body, and he feels The Master’s absence keenly. Now another friend is gone, lost to him forever. 

He feels old and lifeless. Exhaustion has settled into his bones. He does not remember how it felt to not be tired.

-

The War is worse now than ever before. Soldiers are being killed and resurrected continually in the field, the cycle repeating every second. All regenerations are violent and fast now, an explosion of temporal light that tears the body asunder as it is made anew. Those struck down within regeneration explode under the pressure of the misdirected energy.

The stability of the universe has been stretched to breaking point. Only a thin film of time and space now separates the War from the remainder of the universe. If it collapses, everything will BURN.

The sky trenches are trembling. If Arcadia falls, so will the Capitol and with it, Gallifrey.  
Something has to be done to end the War soon.

-

For the first time in this incarnation, he dreams.

He dreams of his other incarnations, of The Doctors. The First Doctor leans on his cane, bowed beneath an invisible weight and a disapproving light in his eyes. He looks so old, for one so young.

The Second Doctor and The Third Doctor face off, gesturing wildly at each other, trying to strike blows but unable to connect. The Third Doctor is encased within a bubble of silence, and The Second Doctor’s flesh is riddled with hairline fractures, a physical manifestation of the mental ones he carried. A broken recorder lies between them.

The Fourth Doctor runs, his scarf askew and being dragged behind him. It has lost all colour, instead it is a pale white that is reminiscent of The Watcher’s complexion. His feet are torn and bloody, his shoes having long worn out, but he does not stop. He cannot stop.

The Fifth Doctor is curled up in the foetal position, tears streaming helplessly down his face. His eyes are vacant and unseeing. His fingers crook rhythmically, as if he is counting silently.

The Sixth Doctor is screaming at the top of his lungs, staggering uneasily and swinging his fists through a shadow that seems to linger by him. The shadow is undefined, other than its right hand, which claws angrily back at him.

The Seventh Doctor stands alone, a motionless statue. His eyes are closed, his fingertips pressed lightly against them.

The Eighth Doctor is kneeling, his hands clasped before him. His expression is of a man preparing to accept his penance by sacrificing his right to forgiveness.

The War Doctor is unsurprised to find himself holding a gun. It fits perfectly in his hands and is without weight. There is a wall of fire behind him. There are bodies moving behind it – four or five perhaps – but he cannot clearly make them out.

He turns his back on all of them, past and future, so they do not have to see his face. He cannot bear to keep looking at theirs.

He is so alone.

And when he awakens, he feels beyond hope.

-

The Omega Arsenal is being depleted. The Council have used almost every weapon from within it. [Even so, no one even looks at the chamber that The Moment lies in.] Action must be taken before all their resources are completely exhausted.

-

Rassilon selects Hedin for the task he has in mind.

[In another Time and place, a Doctor muses that were the Elixir to be stolen by the High Council, he would not be the one sent to do it. He may be a renegade, but he is no fanatic.]

Hedin is eager to serve, accepting the weapon from Rassilon’s own hand with reverence. He is assigned a task force and they are deployed through a temporal vortex to Karn. The task force murder any they come across and Hedin collects the Elixir – all that remains in existence. As they leave, Hedin deploys the weapon he was given. The Breath draws its power from the ghostly remnants of the soul of Morbius – who does not come willingly. His shriek of defiant rage is the weapons source of ignition.

The planet Karn is utterly destroyed, the past, present and future inhaled by the explosion.

[Except for a small pocket of suspended Time, a sliver that exists because it was where a renegade used a black-market regeneration to temporarily sustain his decaying form. Within this pocket the Sisterhood wait with a chalice for a Warrior.]

Hedin returns to Gallifrey and presents the Elixir to Rassilon. A chant goes up as the Elixir is force fed to an unregenerate whose desperation led them to carve all traces of their old Title from their psyche. Their regeneration scorches them from the inside out.

Silence prevails while Rassilon approaches the new Time Lord. “Give us Vision,” he demands.

And The Visionary begins to tap.

-

Between the War and the Elixir, it is clear that The Visionary has been driven mad. It is equally clear that her Vision is so discerning that the High Council do not care and are prepared to follow it anyway.

-

Rassilon had long ago achieved immortality; a timeless, perpetual, bodily regeneration. But this form of renewal is now no longer enough, particularly given that all Time Lords now have access to unlimited regenerations. Rassilon now craves existence within eternity.

He has not forgotten the loss of The Master. But such a final death leads him to consider a new possibility: perhaps finality is the key. Exiling the Daleks had been unsuccessful, so perhaps it is time to try something more destructive. Such a thing will certainly tear the fabric of Time apart, but if it does then at least the War will be finished.

And the Time Lords shall be the victors. They shall exist as Time and Consciousness alone – but they shall still exist.

Rassilon proposes the Ultimate Sanction. He shall bring forth the End of Time and those who follow him shall be granted eternity.

-

The Woman thinks of The Doctor and weeps silently into her hands.

-

Time shudders when the Daleks break through the sky trenches. The city of Arcadia is breached.

He fights on the frontlines. Civilian blood drenches the streets. Children scream, their tears endless. The Daleks carve their way through the city, and he scythes his way through them in return. Chaos rages around him. The Daleks are shrieking murderously.

There is so much death, so much suffering. He decides, quite abruptly, that there must be no more.

He is aware of what Rassilon desires, of the sanction that he will propose. He cannot allow it. To stop the High Council, the Time War must END. And if that means the flames consume them all, Time Lords and the Daleks alike, in order to save the rest of the universe from the BURNING that the War has wrought, then so be it.

-

Time is burning. There is a War being waged.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the audio commentary for The Christmas Invasion, Russell T. Davis and team relayed an in-joke that the haunting vocal music was being sung by Chancellor Flavia. I decided to incorporate this into her character.
> 
> In case anyone is interested, here are the rankings for the renegades (R) and exiles (E):  
> (R) Doctor, Master, Rani: 9-5-3 // (E) Romana: 7-4-1 (unofficial) // (R) War Chief, Corsair: 6-5-2 // (R) Meddling Monk: 4-3-1 // (E) Chronotis: 3-2-1 // (E) Drax: 2-1-1 // (E) Cho-Je/K’anpo: 1-2-1  
> The main difference between a renegade and an exile is their threat assessment.
> 
> Head-canons regarding The Corsair: I consider The Corsair to be younger than the other five renegades, thus explaining why The Corsair is not involved with them as often. Also, The Corsair likes to sail solo and is skilled at avoiding detection, tending to stay under the radar. If taking on bigger jobs (destroying Dalek facilities, for example) The Corsair is happy to team up with fellow renegades.
> 
> As I’ve previously mentioned, ‘The Pantheon of Discord’ is the name of a group of transcendental beings who alter reality to cause a lot of chaos and feed off time energy. If The Master was fed upon, I think the whole universe would cease to exist – because can you imagine The Doctor going through Time Lord adolescence without The Master? The Doctor would either be dead, brainwashed or The Valeyard.
> 
> Fan fact: you can track the chronological order of The Doctor’s murders by the length of the segments. The longest is the first, and the shorter they get, the more recent they are.
> 
> The Valeyard’s sanity is highly questionable during the War. But if you think we’ve seen the last of him, you don’t know me very well…
> 
> ‘Cruciform’ means ‘having the shape of a cross’; and in genetics, DNA can undergo transitions to form a cruciform shape (known as a Holliday junction), which allows recombination and repair that occur in cells.
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from a plethora of New Who episodes; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.


	6. The Day of The Nameless War Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> *Slides furtively out from behind the sofa* New chapter! And one more to go for the Time War era of this series.
> 
> I headcanon The Doctor as being on the asexual spectrum and having a low libido. This is something I have been writing throughout this fic even though I’ve only added the tags for it now; I explore the concept specifically in this chapter. It’s also something I’m going to continue exploring in the New Who timeline of this series, particularly in The Doctor’s relationships with his companions. The ship-what-you-wish disclaimer still applies though.
> 
> As with the previous war chapters, there is some death, war-level violence, emotional manipulation and allusions to torture ahead. The War Doctor displays small signs of disassociation and PTSD in this chapter – this is a precursor to the complex-PTSD that the remaining Doctors will inherit.
> 
> One final note; I’ve been thinking about making a podfic for the series – would anyone be interested in that?
> 
> -

-29-

It’s the last day of the Time War and the city of Arcadia is fallen.

He stands on the streets, the roar of battle ringing in his ears. People are screaming, Daleks are shrieking, and the sound of weapons fire does not stop. He stands alone in a courtyard, unarmed and weary. This cannot continue; if this does not end, here and now, the battle for the Capitol will shatter the remaining barriers between the temporal plains and the universe will be set ablaze. All things will be reduced to dust.

He thinks about the High Council and their plans to bring about the End of Time. He thinks about the War Council and their inability to maintain safeguards against the enemy. He watches as hundreds of Daleks continue to pour out of the sky and imagines billions of them descending upon the universe even as it goes up in flames. The Time War MUST end today.

Children are crying nearby.

He makes a decision.

No more.

He has lost all of his weapons while fighting on the streets of Arcadia, having discarded them one by one as their power cores burnt out rather than risk stopping to reload them. He steps forward when a young man, looking barely out of his first century, stumbles into the courtyard. The soldier’s eyes gleam with the onset of time trauma and his hands are trembling.

“Soldier,” he says calmly. “I’m going to need your gun.”

He turns the weapon upon the wall, honing the fine controls to allow him to carve out a message.

NO MORE

The Daleks will hear of his declaration; they will know of his intention.

-

[A dying Dalek sees the words ‘No More’ engraved upon the wall in the wake of the Time Lord’s departure. It can no longer comprehend the scale and danger of this affirmation, as its memory circuits are degrading too quickly, but it still knows enough to fear it. The Dalek transmits the data to the entire fleet, who screech as one in absolute terror. The Oncoming Storm will devour them all.]

-

The Capitol is in chaos. It takes no effort for him to breach the inner sanctum, where the Time Vaults are located. The Omega Arsenal is unguarded, as there is no sense wasting soldiers when all of the viable weapons have already been used. Now only one thing remains left inside the vault. An artefact so ghastly, so unspeakable, that it may as well not exist at all.

The Alpha Orb is as warm and wet as blood beneath his fingers when he pulls it out of the door. It still sits weightlessly in his palms. It is his hearts that are heavy as he walks into the vault.

“You’re going to end the War.”

He turns. The Rani is leaning against the wall in an alcove to the left side of the doorway. Her hair is red again now, tumbling down around her shoulders and shimmering like wildfire. Her eyes are dull with grief.

“I’m relieved.” She confesses. “It needs to end. And you’re the only one brave enough to risk The Moment.”

“This isn’t bravery.”

“Insanity, then.” She smiles sharply at him. “But madness is nothing new for us high risk renegades.”

A ghost lingers in the quiet space between them. He is not so hollowed out that his chest does not still ache mournfully for the one who should fill it. The Rani presses one hand against her breastbone, curled over the place where the pendent on her necklace is tucked away beneath her clothes. She closes her eyes and rests her head back against the wall.

She hasn’t been the same since the Cruciform massacre. There have been whispers that perhaps she caught her new found insanity from her Time Lord friend who was unravelled into nonexistence. It doesn’t say much about either of them that they are both hoping there is some truth to this, because it would mean that some small measure of the man still exists.

“I wish you a swift death.” She whispers in a kindly manner.

“Rani. Please, do not grieve for me.” He does not deserve such compassion.

“I’ll do what I want.” Her smile is an unhappy one and her broken laughter follows after him as he continues further into the vault.

He enters the chamber where The Moment rests. He strides up to the monolith without faltering and inserts the Alpha Orb into the empty groove sunk into the floor at the base of the structure. There is a soft release of air – almost akin to a sigh – as the shielding disengages. He reaches out and lays his hands upon The Moment, lifting it up from the monolith. A gentle wave sweeps across Time – like the soft brush of lashes as a pair of eyes open in awareness – the instant he takes it. Then there is a soft clack – as a tongue against the roof of a mouth – and the Time War becomes time-locked; past, present and future now bound to The Moment. The outside universe freezes too, suspended in between the space of two heartbeats, to remain untouched until The Moment is done.

The High Council will detect the time-lock; they will know of his intention.

He uses the recall device to summon his TARDIS directly to him for a swift exit, even though he knows that doing so will trigger the security alerts for the outer vaults. The TARDIS materialises so closely to him that his boots are almost brushing the base of the police box. The doors open by themselves and close behind him as soon as he is inside.

The War Council will detect the security breach; they will also know of his intention.

He sets The Moment down on the floor beside him. He caresses his thumb along the edge of the console wistfully and his smile is bittersweet. “One last flight, old girl. You and me.”

The sounds the engines weave around him as they take off are haunting and mournful, but layered with a deep and eternal love.

-

When he emerges from the TARDIS, it is into a sliver of Time that is disconnected from the rest; severed away from the universe and even from the Time War. A small moment crafted by The Moment, to exist solely for this purpose. Here, they are alone, three beings of Time – a Lord; a Machine; and a Weapon.

The Time here is altered, and so is the space that this used to be; the land has been long scorched into a lifeless waste by the flames of War. Far gone are those green fields he had spent his youth in. There is naught now but barren sand, as far as can be seen.

He walks slowly, heading aimlessly away from the TARDIS, a large sack hauled over his shoulder. He lets the weight of it settle across his back, his shoulders, desiring a physical manifestation of the burden that his decision carries.

Time Lords of Gallifrey, he thinks. Daleks of Skaro. I serve notice on you all. Too long have I stayed my hand. No more. Today, you leave me no choice. Today, this War will end.

No more. No more.

He keeps walking. Eventually a small construct comes into view on the horizon. It’s a barn, it’s the barn, broken down and decrepit. It’s also impossible: he and The Master tore it down centuries ago. He heads towards it anyway.

The door still creaks just like it used to. There are wilted leaves strewed across the ground inside. The wood of the structure is old and worn. It will all go up very quickly – kindling for the spark of the inferno he is about to ignite.

He sets the sack on the ground and uncovers The Moment again. The mechanisms inside whir and he skims his fingers over the casing, searching for an interface with which to access the operating system. “Why is there never a big red button?”

There is a breeze that rustles through the leaves. It’s not the wind itself that disturbs his concentration but the feeling that there is another presence nearby, despite the fact that he should be isolated here. Frowning, he gets up to peer outside.

“It’s nothing.” The voice comes from behind him, from within the barn, and he whirls around. A young woman with bright blonde hair is seated upon The Moment. “It’s just a wolf.” She says, a distant smile in her eyes.

Concern propels him towards her instinctively, though his words are scolding and sharp as he pulls her away from the artefact. It is his sense of dishonour that compels him to hustle her out of the barn though. “It’s the most dangerous weapon in the universe.” As he closes the barn door again, shutting her outside, he considers that his statement applies more to himself than anything else. He leans forward, intending to rest his forehead against the wood and breathe for a second.

She speaks up from behind him again. He turns and stares at her, uncomprehendingly. She should not be here; no one should be able to access this Moment of Time. He should be doing this alone. “Why’d you park so far away? Didn’t you want her to see it?” She asks. “The TARDIS.” She gets up and prances around with a loose carelessness in her limbs in a mockery of his own walk here.

He had wanted to walk until it hurt, until every limb quivered with fatigue, because he deserves to suffer for this and his high threshold for pain meant that the distance had to be significant. And even so, his body has already recovered from the effort. And then there is the TARDIS. It’s not that he doesn’t want her to see him using the weapon – she knows everything that there is to know about him, sometimes even before he does himself – but she loves him, for better or worse, and he cannot force her to watch him BURN. Rather than confess his compassion he blurts out, “I was thinking!”

Abruptly, her demeanour changes; she turns to face him, expression serious and voice grave. “I heard you.” She turns flippant again as she chants “no more” – but the words press down on him with a physical force, folds of Time layered upon each other, pulsating shockwaves that rattle through him, right down to his bones.

“Stop it.” To his surprise, she does – and so does that profound resonance. “Who are you?”

The Moment whirs, its mechanisms clacking at him pointedly. He moves towards it, telling the strange woman to get out. But when he reaches for it his hands blister with pain, the heat scorching the blood underneath his skin. He cries out sharply, equal parts hurt and surprise. “The interface is hot,” he replies when she asks him what’s wrong.

“Well I do my best.”

“There’s a power source inside,” he begins to muse before his mind replays her statement in his head. Hot, as in a term for physical attractiveness rather than temperature. He turns to look at her. Did she mean – oh. “YOU’RE the interface?”

“They must have told you The Moment had a conscience.” She smiles and waves at him.

He looks from her to the artefact he is still kneeling beside. So she is the personification of The Moment’s conscience. This makes more sense, as to why she is present here. She calls him ‘Doctor’ as she speaks of him. “You know me?”

“I hear you.” Her voice resonates with power. “All of you.” He wants to protest, to say that while there have been other Doctors, he is the only one of them who is Nameless. But what use is there in semantics now, when all that The Doctor ever was shall BURN away beneath him? So he remains silent. “I chose this face and form especially for you,” she declares, almost proudly. “It’s from your past…or possibly your future; I always get those two mixed up.”

He doesn’t recognise her. But. “I don’t have a future.”

She ignores this interjection. “I think I’m called…Rose Tyler. No, yes, no, sorry, no. In this form, I’m called…” She pauses and stares at him with a fierce intensity. “Bad Wolf.” Her eyes glow brightly with Time energy, lighting her up from the inside. She asks if he is afraid, addressing him by Name again.

This time, he does not let it go unchallenged. “Stop calling me ‘Doctor.’” He doesn’t want it, he isn’t worthy of it. “I’ve lost the right to be The Doctor.”

Her tone has a soft ethereal quality to it when she responds. “Then you’re the one to save us all.”

He sighs. “Yes.” The word is resigned, defeated and he hates himself for it. When she counters with a remark about ego, he gets to his feet. He approaches her, calm and assured at his own fate. “You know what I have seen. The suffering. Every moment in Time and Space is BURNING. It must end. And I intend to end it the only way I can.” He is under no illusions about the severity of his decision and he is intimately familiar with the weight of murder.

She watches him with a strange mixture of empathy and defiance. “And you’re going to use me to end it? By killing them all?” He turns away. “Daleks and Time Lords alike. I could. But there will be consequences for you.”

When are there ever not consequences for him?

He is honest with The Bad Wolf. “I have no desire to survive this.” A depressive exhaustion hits him all at once and he moves to sit down upon an old tyre. She is already seated beside him as he does so, her face soft with contemplation.

“Then that’s your punishment. If you do this, if you kill them all, then that’s the consequence.” She looks at him, and her eyes are fierce and terrible but not without pity as she pronounces her judgement. “You live.”

He will live. He will have to live with it. He will have to live with himself.

He has made many difficult decisions over the years that he has had to live with. This one is more horrific than anything he has ever done. Nevertheless, his life is not so valuable that the fate of it would influence the choice he has made. This War will ensure mutual genocide occurs one way or the other, but if he can save the rest of the universe with his decision here, then so be it. Even if it comes at the cost of his own soul.

“Gallifrey. You’re going to burn it. And all those Daleks with it, but all those children too.”

He does not look at her when she asks how many children there are, there, right now. She is surely capable of answering the question herself, but the question is not for her sake; it is for his. An old memory flickers across his thoughts of children before they were Named; The Doctor, The Master, and The Rani, laughing and playing in green fields. Now those fields are burnt to nothing, and those children long dead.

“I don’t know.”

The Bad Wolf overlays his memory with others and the joyous laughter echoes on and on in ghostly whispers. “One day, you will count them.” She promises. “One terrible night.” She moves closer to him, as though offering a secret. “Do you want to see what that will turn you into?”

He turns towards her then, helplessly, his gaze shifting though he still does not yet meet her eyes. HIS life is not so valuable, but if he is to live, then what of his future selves?

There is a sudden tear in the fabric of Time and Space, a fissure opening up before them. “I’m opening windows on your future.” She explains. “The tangle in Time through the days to come, to the man today will make of you.”

Familiar voices murmur faintly in his memory, of “days to come” and “love to long ago.” She is offering to break the First Rule for him, so that he may meet the man that must continue to live on in the aftermath of his conviction. If he consents, he knows that Time will condemn him with consequences for this too.

Something small and red abruptly tumbles out of the fissure and lands on the ground in front of them; they both look down at it. It’s a fez. And its arrival seems to baffle The Bad Wolf just as much as him.

-

It sits there, red and innocuous, and he is compelled to reach out for it. He picks it up, using his sleeve to brush off the leafy residue that clings to it. It came to be here from the future. From his future. He rests his fingers against the fabric as he considers this. He has previously wondered about what regeneration would bring if he was to perish during the War, about how it would affect the Title – or lack thereof – of his next self. He has never entertained notions of life beyond this War. He will be glad that any of his future selves will be able to be The Doctor again, regardless of what he has made of his existence. And before he uses The Moment to End the Time War, he should face The Doctors that will survive him.

So he makes another decision. He hopes this one will not be as devastating as his last one shall be.

“I want to see my future.”

-

He braces himself for mild discomfort at the very least when he enters the time fissure, but the sensation of being carried through it is akin to flying through the air after leaping from a swing when it reaches its apex. It feels nothing like the vortex that had once torn him out of time, lifetimes ago. He admits he is surprised by the apparent ease of his transgression this time around.

When he arrives through to the other side of the fissure, his landing is elegant. He lands on his feet with well-versed practise, because you cannot afford to stumble when living in a warzone. He has emerged in a forest. He had forgotten that anything could be so green and full of life. It’s the most extraordinary sight he has seen in aeons and it makes the corners of his mouth curl up in a smile.

“Anyone lose a fez?”

There are two young men standing before him, staring at him in disbelief, in trepidation. One is wearing a brown suit and the other has a bow tie. He folds his hands behind his back and endeavours to keep his tone light, so as not to intimidate them further. “Good afternoon. I’m looking for The Doctor.”

They exchange glances that ring of sudden solidarity. One of them returns to staring at him, miserably. “Well,” the other drawls apprehensively, “you’ve certainly come to the right place.” The one who speaks – the one in the suit – has a very familiar sort of face he feels [“because you will remember”], but the memory that prompts this thought is raw and blistering when he attempts to reach for it.

[Somewhere in the past and the future there is a Time Crash amid two Doctors. There is an Event between them that does-not-yet-exist/that does now exist/that does-still-yet-exist, a fixed temporal occurrence that BURNS with such violence that it sears the fabric of their thoughts.]

[Five is burning, Ten is burning, and somewhere in between them, somewhere in Time, a Nameless self is BURNING…but not yet.]

So he puts this train of thought aside. Good, he thinks instead; in the future the ones that survive him do take up the Name of Doctor again, and he wonders what these Doctors will be like. “Well, who are you boys?” They still seem a little poleaxed by his abrupt presence. “Are you his companions?” They must be; they both appear so young. It is an encouraging thought regardless, that there will still be companions to share in The Doctor’s lives. “Well if you could point me in the general direction of The Doctor…” He smiles expectantly at them.

The boy in the suit holds up a sonic screwdriver which lights up as it is activated. His brow furrows as he watches. Then the one with the bow tie does the same with a screwdriver of his own. Oh. “Really? You’re me? Both of you?” He wasn’t expecting to find two of them here, together. “You’re my future selves?”

As first impressions go, this does not bode well. He feels torn; on the one hand, there is the crushing disappointment of having not been able to discern their identities for himself, but this is mostly overshadowed by the bitter relief he feels at not being able to see anything of himself in them. They are The Doctors, after all, and he is Not. Even so, THESE are the men who will replace him?

“Am I having a mid-life crisis?” He takes a step towards them and they both jerk back defensively, brandishing their screwdrivers out in front of them in a ridiculous display. He chastises them immediately, more irately than he means to. “They’re scientific instruments, not water pistols!”

Soldiers arrive then and his empty hands want for a gun rather than his own screwdriver. He is glad to be unarmed. His ears are ringing with the clink of their metal armour. He breathes deeply, using the crisp scents of the forest air to ground himself. This is not a battleground; this is no warzone. Whatever these men want with The Doctor, they do not deserve to die simply because they have found him too.

The commander of the troops, furious over the alleged bewitching of the Queen of England, demands The Doctor’s head. “Well, this has all the makings of your lucky day.”

Voices interject from the other side of the fissure, drawing the attention of the soldiers. He notices both his counterparts have their screwdrivers pointed out like weapons again. “What are you going to do?” He snaps. “Assemble a cabinet at them?”

He believes he may be responsible for this. That his existence has corrupted them on such a fundamental level that they cannot even hold their sonic screwdrivers anymore without treating the equipment as a weapon, is abhorrent. What else has he done to them?

The commander mentions witchcraft, and The Doctor with the bow tie is spurred into speech. He spins a tale about a witch in the well, and gets the woman on the other side of the fissure – he addresses her as Clara – to play along. He is beginning to feel impressed. But then the boy ruins it.

“Timey-wimey?” He repeats incredulously. The Doctor in the suit offers up a sympathetic statement from behind him, as if agreeing with the notion that the comment is absurd.

The Queen appears then, a call going up around the soldiers. The woman approaches the three of them, a figure of stately grace in her golden gown and the soft waves of her red hair make him think of The Rani. The Rani, who he going to BURN along with the rest of the Time Lords, and all of the Daleks.

The two Doctors bicker briefly before the one in the bow tie leaps into action again. He is a bundle of unconstrained motion, flapping his hands around and fidgeting back and forth as he speaks. “I demand to be incarcerated in the Tower immediately with my co-conspirators; sandshoes and grandad.”

The brief surge of warmth he feels upon being included as a ‘co-conspirator’ vanishes instantly with the descriptive moniker he is given. “Grandad?” He is just left feeling insulted. He does happen to be the longest living incarnation of all of them, having existed for aeons upon aeons, but the term ‘grandad’ is clearly being employed as a slur. Their First self was a Grandfather and he was the one to choose the Title ‘Doctor’. The informal use of ‘grandad’ is a deliberate slight against him revoking his Name. It makes him feel ashamed.

So when the other Doctor protests as well, refuting the claim of sandshoes, he glances down. “Yes, they are.” He scoffs, deliberately deflecting. He doesn’t know which two Doctors these ones are yet, but he suspects that the one with the bow tie is older. Let him remember how hurt the other is at the dismissal, and let them both draw conclusions about his own feelings. Just because he does not share their Title does not mean he does not know how they think.

The Queen calls for silence.

-

They are shoved into a dungeon and the door slammed behind them.

He looks at the two of them, his two future selves. The one in the suit gazes up and around the cell while the one with the bow tie seems inspired by a long nail he has found on the floor.

‘Ten,’ The Bad Wolf’s voice echoes into his ear, preceding her presence into this segment of linear time. ‘And Eleven.’

He considers them, considers where these two sit in the timeline of all of their lives. He knows that his life will not count towards the number of Doctors that exist, so neither of them are the man that comes directly after him. This is a rather good stroke of fortune – he is certain that violence would immediately ensue if he was to meet The Ninth Doctor. He wonders how The Ninth Doctor’s life was and will be coloured by his life. He is probably better off remaining unaware.

When he was a youth and the First Rule was merely a hypothetical imperative that was reiterated to them in stuffy classrooms, the professors used to scare them with suggestions of accidently unravelling one’s time stream. But what would happen if you chose to deliberately murder your past incarnation?

He, himself, has murdered an alternate incarnation before. It is difficult to specify whether The Valeyard was his past, present, or future – probably some combination of all three, given the unique circumstances of his shadowed existence. And while both he and The Valeyard have proven their willingness to kill another version of themselves, it is not something he wants to put to test with an actual Doctor. The ones who can call themselves The Doctor deserve more than that.

He is drawn out of his thoughts when Ten speaks, glossing over the Zygon Queen with disinterest, instead focusing on the issue that clearly causes him more concern. “Why are we all here?” Ten eyes him, accusation in his voice, and Eleven stops to properly watch them both. “You knew it was going to happen, who told you?”

The Bad Wolf leans against one of the stone pillars, a finger to her lips. He acknowledges her as the two Doctors banter snidely at each other again; they seem to be distracted with this habit often. There are probably some repressed issues that lie between them. This makes him think of The Second and The Third Doctors, and his hearts squeeze at the comparison. He hopes that these two have the opportunity to make things right between them, so as not to share the same misgivings in the future that the others did.

He turns to the dungeon door again, raising his sonic screwdriver and scans the wood. He speaks as he does so, offering his words as an olive branch to engage them again. He keeps his tone light, conjecturing about whether he can trigger an isolated sonic shift to disintegrate the door. Ten’s reply is negative and condescending, but at least it is a response. Eleven merely glances at them briefly before continuing his etching. His spirits fall and he sits on the bench by the door. Still, he perseveres with his effort to open a conversation with them. The words ‘Timey-wimey’ feel strange on his tongue, so much so that he experiences a brief instant of disassociation.

[“Wibbly-wobbly” – “Timey-wimey” – “Where are you now?” – somewhere in Time, another self is BURNING…but not yet.]

He refocuses on the two young selves in front of him. “Do you have to talk like children? What is it that makes you so ashamed of being a grown-up?”

He believes it’s him.

The look that both of them give him confirms this. They are ashamed of him, they dread his mere presence and he does not blame them for that. In fact, their horror of him seems to be the only thing so far that they both agree on. There has never been so much unified distaste towards a particular self, during their previous occasions of Rule breaking. The First Doctor had not tolerated The Third Doctor’s harsh attitude towards another; The Sixth Doctor had been brash but not unkind to The Second Doctor; and The Fifth Doctor had loved each past self with all he was. Even The Fourth Doctor had dreaded the foreknowledge of his fate more than the echoed projection he had to face, welcoming it back in the end with a sense of calmness and peace. If Ten and Eleven hate him, The Ninth Doctor must despise him. And The Twelfth Doctor? His probably unfavourable opinion is sure to be cemented by the time this experience is thrice done.

Ten’s words are cold when he ventures them, ice and steel woven beneath them. “It must be really recent for you.”

“The Time War.” Eleven contributes, his own voice haunted. “The last day, the day you killed them all.”

Ten interjects immediately, sharp with self-loathing. “The day WE killed them all.”

“Same thing.”

The two future Doctors cannot hold each other’s gazes, too appalled at themselves to face what they see in each other. Eleven turns back to his task, facing the wall, and Ten turns his back and walks away.

“It’s history for them.” The Bad Wolf says gently, remaining unnoticed by either Doctor. “They think their future is real; they don’t know it’s all still up to you.”

His decision has already been made. It will soon be time to act on it. His future – their past – is real, and this is what his conviction will do and has done to them.

“I don’t talk about it.” And perhaps this statement also works in past tense for both of them. While they may have told their companions of how the Time War ended, of what he did, it would be unlikely they would know anyone capable of understanding the complexities of the fourth dimension enough to truly comprehend the effect of The Moment and what it did to him. What it will do to him.

The Bad Wolf tells him to ask them what he needs to know. Though he is very aware that her purpose is to stand in judgement on him and his decision, the compassion in her voice gives him the courage to speak. “Did you ever count?” He knows the question will distress them but he needs to know. The Bad Wolf had said that he would count, one night. “How many children there were on Gallifrey that day.”

Both Doctors freeze. As he predicted, he has hurt them.

It is Eleven who finds his voice first, professing ignorance. Ten’s eyes narrow, his gaze fixed on his future self.

He considers Eleven thoughtfully. The animated and childish man from the forest is long gone, swept away beneath something ancient and sad. “How old are you now?” He wonders aloud.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Eleven’s answer is nonchalant, but underscored with a bitter wistfulness. “Twelve Hundred and something, I think. Unless I’m lying.” This comment seems to upset Eleven in an additional way, a relatively new grief separate from the War. What life has this man found and lost in so short a time to cause such heartache? But in terms of his answer, the numbers are unhelpful. Twelve Hundred is a numerical value that would not align with their chronological age, even if the aeons he has spent embroiled in War are discounted. It doesn’t actually tell him how long it has been, since Eleven was him. 

“Four hundred and eighty three years.” The Bad Wolf informs him obligingly.

“Four hundred years older than me, and in all that time you never even wondered how many there were?” It is all he has had on his mind since he first turned his thoughts towards The Moment. “You never once counted?”

This makes Eleven angry. “Tell me,” he says darkly, “what would be the point?”

The answer to this question is provided instantly – and comes from Ten, his tone just as bleak. “Two point four seven billion.”

“You did count!” The words are torn from him as the number ricochets around his mind. The sense of him that is most attuned to memories of The Fifth Doctor heightens his awareness of the number: 2.47 billion. 2.47 BILLION children.

He wonders which one of them it was that counted, and what it was that drove them to do so.

But they are both ignoring him again – Eleven has closed his eyes and shaken his head as Ten advances on him, his expression contorting with rage. “You forgot?! Four hundred years; is that all it takes?!”

Eleven steps forward, unflinchingly fierce. “I moved on.” Ten demands to know how he could possibly do this, his voice rising and breaking with stormy grief. Eleven’s retort is soft and firm. “Spoilers.”

“No.”

He frowns. That single word – spoilers – seems to have unsettled Ten and he wonders why. It’s clear that the word seems to mean something specific to them both. But he doesn’t have time to dwell on it, because the two of them are in each other’s faces now, infuriated and ready to tear each other apart. Both of them, poised on the brink of war with one another. Unlike him, they should be good men. But evidently his existence has acted like a cancer, afflicting them with a sickness that does not abate. He is the soldier, while they are physicians. They should not be like this, so ready to destroy themselves. 

“I don’t know who you are,” he says into their abrupt silence. “Either of you.” His voice seems to shatter apart the tension between them though.

“They’re you.” The Bad Wolf’s voice rings with a conviction of her own and he meets her eyes as it resonates within him. “They’re what you become if you destroy Gallifrey.” Her eyes are deep pools of sorrow. “The man who regrets.” Ten. “And the man who forgets.” Eleven.

So this is what the future will bring for them. Abruptly, he thinks of the dream he had about the incarnations of The Doctor, of the wall of fire that separated him from his future and the four or five bodies on the other side of those flames. He assumes that those future selves are to be Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve, with perhaps a shadow of The Valeyard lingering on the fringes. The Valeyard had been borne during their twelfth regeneration after all, and while he now sleeps back within their psyche, the time has not yet arrived in which his awareness first grew.

His gaze drifts over to Eleven. Seconds ago, these two Doctors had both been ready to harm each other. The Sixth Doctor’s hatred for The Valeyard was so profound that he had been intent to murder him before he existed; did Eleven deliberately attempt to murder The Valeyard during their twelfth regeneration? It is a sobering thought, to consider that Eleven is capable of such a thing, intentionally denying another self the right to exist.

The Sixth Doctor was anger and had easily been capable of murderous intent, struggling to keep control of it. He had succeeded when it had most matter; not harming The Rani and The Master as he had feared he may. Is this all it takes, to turn a Doctor from intent to commitment? His life and his conviction?

He reflects on The Valeyard’s madness when the reconvergence was upon them; his desire to make all The Doctors suffer by destroying him. But they may have thanked The Valeyard had he succeeded; these Doctors would cut him out if they could, and they would be right to do so.

“The Moment is coming.” The Bad Wolf insists. “The Moment is me. You have to decide.” She knows that he has already elected to BURN; she is awaiting his decision on his other selves, on whether he has seen what he needs of them and is prepared to return to that fragment of time where The Moment awaits him.

Is this all that The Doctors are to be? Broken shards of remorse and deterioration, having long since shattered under the force of their horror at him? Have they been reduced to nothing more than wasted echoes of life? His chest aches, the hand-like scar seared onto his flesh throbbing almost vindictively at the thought.

“No.” He won’t let them do this to themselves. “Just…NO.”

The conviction of that single syllable reverberates between the three of them.

The Valeyard would find pleasure in watching any Doctor destroy themselves but The Watcher – another alternate aspect intertwined into their existence across time – The Watcher would likely mourn them all regardless, himself included. He wonders whether The Watcher would even mourn The Valeyard and at the thought, to his surprise, the pain around his scar lessens.

Eleven begins to laugh to himself, the same broken and hopeless laugh The Rani had given earlier. “Sorry. It just occurred to me; this is what I’m like when I’m alone.”

When I’m alone.

“It’s the same screwdriver.” The Bad Wolf remarks unexpectedly, her position now back across the room beside Ten, who tosses the aforementioned screwdriver absently into the air. She smiles warmly. “Same software, different case.”

He watches the screwdriver spin and fall back into Ten’s hand and then looks down at the one in his own. “Four hundred years!” He breathes in sudden comprehension. When this garners both of their attentions, he continues. “At a software level, they’re all the same device, aren’t they?” He waits a moment, but neither of them contradicts him. He gets to his feet and scans the door. The calculations would take centuries; but if he implants the calculation as a permanent subroutine… “And if you really are me” – if they consent to keep at least this one small piece of him after his death, if nothing else – “and that screwdriver is still mine…”

Ten pulls his screwdriver up, testing the software for the calculation. “Yeah,” he says excitedly, “it’s still going!”

Eleven raises his, quietly stunned. “Calculation complete.”

The Bad Wolf grins wildly from where she stands behind the two Doctors, a joyful laugh in her voice. “Same software, different face.”

“Hey, four hundred years in four seconds!” Eleven’s beaming smile captures the same joy – and what a simple pleasure it is to see him transform completely, coming vibrant and alive again. “We may have had our differences – which is frankly odd in the circumstances – but I tell you what boys, WE are incredibly clever.”

The dungeon door abruptly swings open on the tail end of his sentence and a young woman comes tumbling through it. “It wasn’t locked,” she tells Eleven before glancing briefly at him and Ten. “So they’re both you then, yeah?”

Eleven acknowledges this. “You’ve met them before.” He doesn’t recognise her either though. “Don’t you remember?”

“A bit.” Then she frowns. “Three of you in one cell and none of you thought to try the door?”

“Should’ve been locked.” He says matter-of-factly, his thoughts skirted by memories of Dalek prison camps, of pain and torture and restraints that immobilised him. Of another woman who tore through enemy territory to liberate him. But this woman – Eleven’s companion, Clara, he believes her name was – she doesn’t resemble The Mistress even a little.

However, the Queen that enters the dungeon a moment later, definitely still puts him in mind of The Rani. “I understand you’re rather fond of this world. It’s time, I think, you saw what’s going to happen to it.”

-

The Queen leads them down into the bowels of the Tower. “The Zygons lost their own world. It burned in the first days of the Time War.” He doesn’t remember the specifics of that one planet, but he doesn’t doubt the validity of the statement; many worlds have already been consumed by the War. But he has the ability to save the rest.

One of the Zygons approach. There is a small cube atop an altar; when the Zygon touches it, the cube physically projects the alien into the scenery of the painting that rests against the wall. A small figure now stands amidst the landscape where there had not been one previously.

Aeons ago, after Rassilon’s awakening but before The Nightmare King, there had been an incident in The Rani’s laboratory with a stasis cube. They had been assisting her with the construction of a chemical warhead when it overloaded. He had been holding a stasis cube at the time – he and The Master had been reminiscing about the time they had used one to somewhat-accidently trap one of their Academy lecturers inside a painting of a twelve-dimensional chronograph. He had hurled the stasis cube at the warhead and it had made contact just as the casing ruptured. The explosion had been suspended within a bubble of frozen time, unstable and fluctuating, but it had held long enough for the three of them to evacuate from the lab.

He had later remarked that the visual of the immobile detonation had been striking. The Rani’s only comment had been to bemoan the two centuries worth of work that she would have to redo. The Master, however, had taken every opportunity to remind him of his observation for at least the next six campaigns.

“It’s a stasis cube,” he explains to Clara. “Time Lord art.” He wonders where this cube came from, how it ended up here. “Frozen instants in time. Bigger on the inside, but could be deployed as…”

“Suspended animation,” Ten cuts in, and Eleven snaps his fingers in agreement. “Oh, that’s very good.

“They’re stored in the paintings in the Under Gallery,” Eleven tells his companion, “like Cup-a-Soups, except you add time, if you can picture that.” His brow creases. “Nobody can picture that. Forget I said Cup-a-Soups.”

“So the Zygons are invading the future, from the past?”

He has to concede that it’s an elegant and ingenious notion, something that The Master himself would have attempted back during their UNIT days.

Ten rounds on the Queen then and begins reciting a long list of insults, everything from her appearance to her mannerisms, finishing with emphasis on the stupidity of revealing one’s own plan.

The Queen reveals that it’s not her plan; because she is the real Elizabeth.

Ten immediately attempts to backtrack, sending him and Eleven a look that is a clear plea for help. Don’t look at me, he thinks; I don’t have the capacity to navigate a relationship that doesn’t involve warfare.

Elizabeth reveals the dagger she has strapped to her ankle, recounts that she had taken advantage of the weaknesses the alien had adapted in its impersonation of her and eliminated it. He is impressed with her resourcefulness and her tenacity, and once again he cannot shake the reminder of the Rani. He wonders if this is what Ten sees in her as well and how this resemblance may have influenced their relationship.

As if in response to his musings on this, Queen Elizabeth smiles at Ten and reminds him of a promise he has to keep before leaving to save the future of her kingdom. He and Eleven raise their eyebrows in unison.

-

The ceremony is arranged swiftly – as is any directive in accordance to a Queen’s will – and after a short sermon, a minister pronounces the pair man and wife. Clara, standing to the Queen’s left to act as the entire bridal party, cheers. He and Eleven, standing further back to Ten’s right, watch on with a mutual sense of uncertainty. It is a very strange thing, to observe your own wedding. Particularly when feeling somewhat conflicted about it.

Queen Elizabeth pulls Ten into a kiss. It continues on for quite some time.

“Is there a lot of this in the future?”

He doesn’t know how he feels about the thought of this either. He is capable of appreciating aesthetic beauty, but he has never really experienced physical attraction towards another before, not in any of his incarnations. This is something that remains unchanged by regeneration and regardless of Name. In the case of the Queen herself, while he doesn’t know what Ten thinks of her, he seems incapable of not associating her with The Rani. He and The Rani had never been close – though their friendship seems to have strengthened once more over the course of the War – but there had been a time when she had been interested in a physical relationship with him, during their days at the Academy. She had understood – eventually – that his refusal was less about her and more about his disinterest in that sort of thing in general. But it appears that Ten and Elizabeth share at least this sort of physicality. He wonders about his future selves, about whether they chose to engage in other forms of physical intimacy as well.

Eleven looks to be just as discomforted as he is, which is somewhat reassuring. “It does start to happen, yeah.”

The couple breaks apart. Ten very seriously informs the Queen he will be “right back” – at which he and Eleven exchange glances over the inaccuracy of the statement – before racing into the TARDIS. He, Eleven, and Clara follow at a more sedate pace.

The second they enter, it is clear that the old girl recognises them both. The TARDIS reaches out to them with the only physical sense that she has; the environmental configuration of the ‘desktop’ setting, as Ten phrases it. “Three of us from different time zones; it’s trying to compensate.” Trying to reach all three of them simultaneously. But her net casts a little wider than she intends, and several pieces of the console room that display are much older than their times.

For the first time since he has met them, he watches as his two other selves are genuinely nostalgic for their past, expressing a warmth and a love towards old memories. It fills him with a deep sense of contentment; even if such a sentiment will never be directed at HIM specifically, it is proof that at least they still care for the other Doctors of their past.

Eleven pulls the TARDIS into sync with his timeline, stabilising the environment. “We’re going to the National Gallery, the Zygons are underneath it.”

“No,” Clara informs them, “UNIT HQ. They followed us there; in the Black Archive.”

The three of him turn to stare at her in unison. Curse the Black Archive, that hateful cesspool of military suspicion and intolerance. He knew that nightmarish hoard of UNIT’s would cause trouble for him one day.

-

He knows about the Black Archive’s security protocols, about the nuclear warhead that sits beneath the Tower of London, ready to be detonated in the event of an alien incursion. He has always wondered whether those caveats had included HIM breaking in. But he couldn’t care less right now, watching as Eleven rapidly activates a signal to the space-time telegraph that The Brigadier had stowed in there for them. Listening as Eleven frantically announces that Kate is down there.

“The Brigadier’s Kate?” He and Ten breathe together in horror.

The intercom cuts in just in time for them to hear the words of a very determined woman. “Somewhere in your memory is a man called Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. I’m his daughter.”

She sounds so much like him, so much like her father did in his younger years; headstrong and committed to their duty. He remembers the letter he left, the man who wanted him to live with his choice, and despair consumes him.

“Science leads, Kate!” Eleven calls out. “Is that what your father meant?” He turns desperate and frightened when she won’t listen. “Kate, please!”

Ten lurches forward, equally desperate. “This is not a decision you will ever be able to live with!”

Eleven and Ten look at each other then, with empathy and understanding, united against the idea that someone they love would have to make the decision that destroyed them. He watches them both and understands at last why he is what he is to them. They have carried the burden of his choice on their shoulders too but have been content with prescribing the responsibility of the decision to him alone. Now that they have spent time with him this new grief has arisen, an open acknowledgement of why they keep him removed from their identity.

He has to be dead to them for them to live with themselves.

So be it.

They can’t land; the Black Archive is protected against the materialisation of a TARDIS. This is not because of them, but due to old grudges that UNIT still bear towards The Master. Even now, with the man gone, The Master is still causing problems for him with UNIT.

Sometimes it is impossible to believe that The Master really is gone forever.

Then Kate disables the telegraph from her end and the silence horrifies them all.

No.

The Brigadier’s daughter. Two point four seven billion children, he is about to murder to save the universe from the Time War. But if there is a single good thing to come of his existence, he will save this one child.

His eyes fall on the stasis cube that rests on the console. “We don’t need to land.” The realisation unfurls in his mind like a flower blossoming beneath warm sunlight. “There is another way.” He picks the cube up, holds it in his hands. Like the Alpha Orb it is cool to the touch, but the cube has a light weight to it. It is a good weight. “Cup-a-Soup.”

He doesn’t know what a Cup-a-Soup is, but the way that the expressions of his other selves light up is satisfaction enough.

-

They need a painting for this plan to work. Eleven tells them of the impossible artwork in the National Gallery that depicts the Time War. None of them understand how it exists – the painting is made from memories but there are no echoes of the BURNING within those memories. It is almost as though the painting was made by a ghost, one who saw the War without being touched by it. Which is impossible, and yet. The mystery of its origins aside, this painting will serve their purpose.

Eleven makes a swift phone call, instructing a member of UNIT to send the Gallifrey Falls painting to the Black Archive, bending the First Rule dangerously to accomplish this, even as they are already breaking it.

They all stand before the painting. He holds the stasis cube in his hands. He inspects the image for a secluded place for Clara to hide and settles on behind the ruins of small wall in a corner isolated away from any conflict.

Clara looks unconvinced and more than a little wary. “Is it dangerous?” She asks. “I mean, it doesn’t exactly look safe.”

The Bad Wolf shakes her head once, a promise in her eyes.

“You’ll be suspended inside the space of two heartbearts, Clara.” He tells her. “No harm will come to you. You won’t even be aware of the passage of time.”

Clara still looks towards Eleven, awaits his confirmation before allowing herself to be translated into the painting and disappears from sight.

“Are you ready for this?” Eleven asks Ten quietly.

“Are you?” Ten’s voice holds equal concern.

“Stay close to me.” He instructs them both firmly and activates the stasis cube.

-

Within the painting, they are frozen in an instant of time; safe and hidden away. They are also segregated from their surroundings but this is not an easy feat; the presence of three conscious Time Lords within this expanse is causing tiny fluctuations within the artwork, the slice of time wanting to flow forward and loop over again. His conviction is what holds their sliver of reality motionless. His will acts as akin to the Leidenfrost effect in this place, insulating them against the painted memories of War.

He holds them all inside this moment, waiting for the right occasion in which to act. Time coils around him; sinks into him; attempts to tear through him to get to his other selves. He keeps the sensation contained to only himself, keeps Ten and Eleven protected from it. He knows them here, knows exactly who they are, and it is as close as he will ever be to them.

And then the occasion they need arrives; the time-space telegraph ceases broadcasting and the alarms for the nuclear countdown still blaring.

He releases his hold on the paused time within the painting and the fluctuation pours motion into their surroundings. He stands on the streets, the roar of battle ringing in his ears. People are screaming, Daleks are shrieking, and the sound of weapons fire does not stop. He stands in a courtyard, unarmed and weary, but he is not alone.

Now, he thinks at his two other selves.

The three of them turn and all point their screwdrivers out in front of them in unison at the reanimated Dalek that advances towards them. The combined power of their sonic field repels the Dalek backwards until it hits the barrier enclosing the painting. The glass shatters.

The three of them stride forward, war sirens blaring out behind them in the streets, alarms ringing out in front of them from the Black Archive. They step out of the painting and walk up to where the small group of humans and Zygon duplicates face off against each other.

“Hello.” He begins.

“I’m The Doctor.”

“Sorry about the Dalek.”

Eleven approaches one of the Kates, demanding an explanation from both of them and they momentarily startle, as though something about his demeanour has caught them unawares. He suspects it’s the same thing that he is currently thinking: that Eleven suddenly reminds him of The Brigadier.

“You’re about to murder millions of people.”

“To save billions.” Kate says firmly. “How many times have you made that calculation?”

“Once.” Eleven’s answer makes Zygon-Kate start and stare at him.

“You tell yourself it’s justified,” Ten argues, “but it’s a lie. Because what I did that day was wrong.”

He turns his head towards The Bad Wolf. She watches him patiently.

Eleven continues. “And because I got it wrong, I’m going to make you get it right.” Both Doctors synchronously wheel the chairs around and sit down, kicking their feet up onto the table and folding their arms. He watches the two of them together, talking easily with one another as they lay out a plan.

He’s just a grandad; he’s not a Grandfather. But, oh, does he feel so proud of them.

They both get to their feet again and leap up onto the table, raising their screwdrivers up towards the ceiling, pointing them towards the memory wipe devices embedded there. He smiles, almost laughs, at their antics and raises his own screwdriver too.

There is a flare of light that leaves both Kate Lethbridge-Stewarts blinking in disorientation. And then they call out, as one, “cancel the detonation!” The countdown stops and the alarms, at last, go quiet.

“Peace in our time.” Eleven remarks, satisfied.

-

He withdraws as the negotiations begin, seating himself in an armchair on the far side of the room, alone. The cup of tea he holds is the most fragile and precious thing he can ever remember holding in this life; Eleven had made it and had known exactly how he likes it.

After some time, Clara meanders over to sit with him and introduces herself properly. “We haven’t really met yet.”

Many, many aeons and lifetimes ago, a Grandfather thought it dangerous to know future companions. But he thinks it is wise to leave some inkling of reassurance for his future selves, so they know that they won’t be alone after the War. “I look forward to it.”

She has kind eyes. “The Doctor, my…my Doctor. He’s always talking about the day he did it.”

He is saddened by this. “One would.”

“You wouldn’t.” She knows The Moment is still in his future. “He regrets it,” she says in a rush, as though if she gets the words out fast enough they will have a greater impression on him. “I see it in his eyes every day; he’d do anything to change it.”

“Including saving all these people?” The Time War must BURN out to End, this is a fact. The only difference will be what BURNS along with it. “How many worlds has his regret saved, do you think?” Gallifrey will perish, but Earth will not. Millions of children will die, but there is at least one here who will live. This alone would be enough for him, and there are so many other worlds and so many other children that will be saved also. He asks Clara how she knew that he hadn’t done it yet, curious as to what she sees that his other selves did not.

“Your eyes,” she replies. “You’re so much younger.”

“Then all things considered,” he decides, “it’s time I grew up.” He slides his eyes past her, speaks to The Bad Wolf. “I’ve seen all I needed. The Moment has come.” It is time. “I’m ready.”

“I know you are.”

-

He stands back in the barn again, with The Moment before him. The artefact is transformed now.

“Well you wanted a big red button.”

She asks him if he is sure. “I was sure when I came in here.” He IS conviction and this decision must be made, no matter the consequences. “There is no other way.”

“You’ve seen the men you will become.”

“Those men?” Those two young boys who, despite everything they have suffered, despite all their sorrows and all they’ve lost, despite HIM, they still have such capacity for love and life and laughter. “Extraordinary.” He wishes he could have known them longer, but at least he knows them at all.

She smiles affectionately at the direction of his thoughts. “They were you.”

“No. They are The Doctor.” She tries to insist that he is The Doctor too, but he knows he is Not. “Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.” He inhales. “Whatever the cost.” He raises his hand, hovers it over the button as memories of children laughing dance across his thoughts.

The Moment is Now.

But The Bad Wolf speaks.

“You know the sound the TARDIS makes? That wheezing, groaning?” His hand retracts slightly, fingers curling inward into a loose fist as he looks at her. “That sound brings hope, wherever it goes.”

“Yes.” His voice is heavy with the tears he wants to let fall. “Yes, I like to think it does.”

“To anyone who hears it, Doctor. Anyone. However lost.” At first he thinks he is imagining it, but as it grows in volume it becomes clear the sound is real. Her smile is enchanted. “Even you.”

He turns around, very slowly, to see two TARDISes materialising side by side at the far end of the barn. The Bad Wolf has let them through the time-lock, into this Moment.

The doors creak open. Ten and Eleven step out, taking in the sight of the barn as they approach him.

No. No, they cannot be here for this. “This is for me.” He turns his back on them, turning back towards the weapon. “Go back to your lives.” He wants them to live, to be able to live without this, without him. “Go and be The Doctor that I could never be.” He is ready to die, so that everyone else may live. “Make it worthwhile.” He places his hand atop the button. His fingers shake with grief.

Ten and Eleven speak words about how they had tried to erase the memory of him, and then they both speak of him as The Doctor. No, no, this is not what should be. They are right to regret his life, they are right to forget his life. But now they stand with him, crowding in beside him, and both lay a hand atop of his.

“But this time…”

“…you don’t have to do it alone.”

His hearts break for these two, who would relive this horror just so they can be there for him. He can sense their convictions for this, their resolve not to abandon him to suffer through this on his own again. He will respect their choice to be here for him in this instance.

“What we do today, is not out of fear or hatred.” Ten says. “It is done because there is no other way.”

“And it is done in the name of the many lives,” Eleven continues, “we are failing to save.”

The Master, who is amongst those already dead and lost because of this War. The Rani, who will perish as one amongst trillions in order to see it ended.

Three hands rest upon a big red button in the space of a Moment.

Eleven glances across at the space where Clara stands. “What?” He asks, his voice trembling.

“You told me you wiped out your own people.” She stammers. “I just, I never pictured YOU doing it, that’s all.”

This gives him pause. What difference does his face make? Does she mean because Eleven is The Doctor, but he is Not? She had been so kind to him before. Was it only because she knew he hadn’t done it yet and such an act would be unforgivable after the fact? Or is it purely a cosmetic issue; reconciling what the face of a man should look like if he is capable of genocide. When she met him, did she judge him to be a monster immediately because of his appearance? Would she have done the same to The Sixth Doctor, had they met?

The statement seems to strike the other two in the same way, but before Eleven can reply the scenery around them changes. The Bad Wolf projects the reality of the battle ravaged streets, in the time that exists just before this Moment. Time Lords, children and adults alike, cower and flee beneath the crumbling world as the War stretches thin, on the precipice of the breaking point.

Clara grows exponentially disturbed by the sight. “These are the people you’re going to burn?”

But there isn’t anything they can do. The fires of War are already bleeding into the universe at this point and only The Moment is keeping the War from spilling out into linear time. If the War does not End, then everything else will.

The world goes dark around them. Clara’s face is wet. None of them want this. But what else is there to do? Eleven is the one to ask this aloud.

“What you’ve always done. Be a Doctor.”

She asks about his Name, about the promise he chose all those years ago. Even though HE has not borne their Title, he still remembers. Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in.

The barn flickers back into existence around them. And Eleven stands there and just looks at them.

Neither of them can believe what it is that their older self is about to propose.

“We change history all the time.” Eleven points out, his voice a whisper. “I’m suggesting something far worse.”

They would have to do more than just change their own personal history. Theoretically, to alter a fixed temporal event as infinite and complex as this, they would need to disassemble and then reconstruct the very fabric of Time itself. If they can find a way to achieve such a thing, they could change the outcome of the War. There will be serious consequences, of course. But it would be worth it.

Eleven straightens. “I’ve changed my mind.” He points his screwdriver at the weapon, deactivating it. The three of them watch the mechanism descend, folding itself back down into its base form and they all take a moment to just breathe as a terrible burden lifted.

He is the first to turn his mind back to the reality of the situation; the War still needs to be dealt with. “There’s still a billion billion Daleks up there, attacking.”

Eleven grins. “This time, there’s three of us.”

He thinks of a screwdriver, of the same software in a different case. And then comes the hope, as he has never felt it, not in this life of his. He understands now, exactly what can be done. “She didn’t just show me any old future,” he cries out excitedly, gratitude bubbling over. “She told me exactly the future I needed to see! Oh, Bad Wolf girl, I could kiss you!”

She laughs. “Yep, that’s gonna happen.”

They launch straight into the logistics; the Daleks are surrounding Gallifrey, but if the planet vanishes then they will be firing upon themselves instead. With Gallifrey gone and the Daleks destroyed, history would still hold that they annihilated each other. And Gallifrey would be frozen in an instant of time; safe and hidden away, exactly –

“ – like a painting.”

-

He sends a call of his own out. The Bad Wolf’s entire being glows with temporal energy as she opens up other fissures across space and time.

-

“Would you do the honours?” Eleven asks, and Ten nods encouragingly. So he sends a message through to the War Council, to announce their intentions.

GALLIFREY STANDS

The three of them each patch their individual TARDISes through to the Council as they make their preparations.

“Also The Doctor,” he says and the empowerment he feels at being able to do so is beyond measure. “Standing ready.”

“Dear god, the three of them.” The General says as their signals stabilise. “All my worst nightmares at once.”

A flash of memory passes through his mind; an old friend who said he didn’t know when he was well off when faced with three of them, unaware that there was a tomb he was yet to stand in and how still well off he actually was. He fights the urge to laugh. The General has much to learn about making such an assumption.

They begin laying out their plan, flying their TARDISes into the lower atmosphere and positioning themselves accordingly in order to freeze Gallifrey.

“You know, like those stasis cubes? Single moment in time, held in a parallel pocket universe.”

The General is sceptical, both of their method and their motives. He listens as his two future selves point out the alternative – the option HE chose to see through – and he is glad that this time around, it will not happen that way.

“It’s delusional.” The General protests. “The calculations alone would take hundreds of years.”

But that isn’t a problem, because The Doctor started those calculations a very long time ago.

-

[Nine other TARDISes pass through the time-lock and into the Last Great Time War, answering the call. And now there is every incarnation of The Doctor gathered here, as of this particular temporal moment; all twelve of them.]

-

[The First Rule bends, breaks, and then shatters. Time warps and bursts open. Every potential universe that exists is swallowed up by the dust, and the dust turns to light, and the light turns to an absence thereof, until nothing remains except the nothingness that never was. There is no Time without the First Rule that exists for it, and there can be no Great Wars of a realm that has been unwound. Only The Moment breathes still, waiting for the Consequences.]

[All that stands between The Moment and Nothingness is a conviction that was already made. And when the Conviction becomes the Consequence, Time begins anew.]

[The Moment closes its eyes and sighs. And there is Time again as the First Rule exists. Nothingness gives way beneath light, and light becomes dust, and dust unspools into the potential moments from which universes are made. Time moves back and forward to fill the present once more.]

-

[One other TARDIS passes through the time-lock and into the Last Great Time War, answering the call. And now there is every incarnation of The Doctor gathered here, as of this particular temporal moment; all thirteen of them.]

-

[There is also a ghost that bridges the distance between the time vortex and an open fissure, one who Watches this Moment that was prepared for.]

[There is also a human, a life that was grown from a repurposed regeneration and a meta-crisis, who awakens instantaneously. His hand trembles and his single heart beats in double time.]

[There is also a dream that stirs in the distance. It cannot carry itself into the waking world but it takes the opportunity to drag the waking mind down into its realm, where it becomes a Lord.]

-

The Daleks increase their attacks, driven mad with fear of The Doctors. The General, conceding this is the only chance for Gallifrey’s survival, consents to the plan.

Eleven gives them all the signal with a shout of “Geronimo!” Ten follows suit with a cry of “Allons-y!”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, for god’s sake,” he grumbles, before uttering with all his conviction – in a completely level tone of voice, thank you very much – “Gallifrey Stands!”

-

There is a silent flash of light, as bright as a sun, that is seen throughout all of time and space. It BURNS all at once and then vanishes.

When it clears, Gallifrey is gone, the Dalek race is decimated, and the Last of The Great Time Wars is Ended.

-

Back at National Gallery, there’s tea. The painting sits there, strangely undamaged again though no one knows how or why it was mended. He assumes the Bad Wolf’s involvement though.

They may never know if they succeeded or not in sparing Gallifrey, but at least they may have failed doing the right thing this time. He is acutely aware that until The Moment utilised by them all today becomes synchronous with Eleven’s present – as their current latest existing incarnation – the outcome will remain aligned with his original conviction. He and Gallifrey will always BURN until The Doctor becomes Eleven, and then the planet’s new fate will assert itself. Whether that fate is any different remains to be seen.

The inconsistency over the Title of the painting gives them no answers. “Either No More, or Gallifrey Falls.”

“Not very encouraging.”

“How did it get here?” Ten raises a very good point; the painting is a slice of memory. But whose memory?

It is no longer the time to think on the past – or the future – as he has the present to attend to. “Well, gentlemen, it has been an honour. And a privilege.” Ten acknowledges the same, and Eleven calls him “Doctor” in return.

For the first time in his existence, he accepts the Title for himself. He may have been the one who made himself into a Warrior, but he can now call himself The War Doctor and have it mean something good.

It is a shame that The Master did not live to have himself proven right on this matter. He would have enjoyed that victory most of all.

“And if I grow to be half the man that you are,” he turns, “Clara Oswald, I shall be happy indeed.” Though he is still uncertain about her character, he is grateful that she will be there for Eleven, in that Moment, and in whatever others may arise.

Clara laughs and kisses his cheek in farewell.

He turns towards the line of TARDISes and a thought occurs which makes his smile fade. “I won’t remember this, will I?” The memories of the other Doctors that were present with them have already blurred away into faint shadows, and the same is bound to happen when he leaves the presence of these two. After all, that is the Rule. “So I won’t remember that I tried to save Gallifrey, rather than BURN it. And I have to live with that.” He can, he knows. He would have done so either way. “But for now, for this moment, I am The Doctor again.” He is grateful to these two amazing incarnations for giving him this moment, for giving him a future he can be proud of. “Thank you.”

He pauses for a moment more. There is a presence nearby that stirs his memories, one that makes the space between them echo with whispers of the past. Suddenly, he has an acute instinct about who may have acquired this painting of the Time War. Thank you, he thinks warmly towards that presence; The Moment was prepared for indeed.

He makes a joke about identifying which time machine is his to cover the small lapse in his attention and then enters the battered old police box. He touches the console reverently as they dematerialise. “I suppose it wasn’t our last flight after all, old girl.”

But the engines wheeze mournfully and a few seconds later he understands why. Oh, he thinks, as his hands begin to glow with golden light.

“Of course, it makes sense.” After all, their very first regeneration had been a result of The First Doctor’s slow deterioration as his body and mind gave way beneath the Rule that he had broken. Now he himself has not only borne the consequences of breaking that Rule apart – for himself and for twelve others besides – but also rendering Time itself undone. The damage this has inflicted upon him has been far too great, even for his tolerances. “Wearing a bit thin.”

He tilts his head back, preparing to surrender himself to the change. His next self will have no choice in what they are to become, but he will turn his own death into a blank slate for the future. He will let his life end in reverse to how it began. He had become what was necessary, in this life. Now, his next self can become The Doctor again.

His final thought is a strange one. “I hope the ears are a bit less conspicuous this time.”

And then his regeneration begins.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> The War Doctor draws conclusions about which of his future selves were hinted at in the dream he had in the last chapter. He is incorrect, of course, because he is counting incarnations rather than regenerations. (As previously mentioned, The Twelfth Doctor won’t play a big part on this series as of yet.) The dream will reoccur down the track, revealing who is actually present, but you may be able to guess already.
> 
> The Leidenfrost effect is where cool water vaporizing on a very hot surface generates a layer of steam that temporarily insulates against high temperature; for example, being able to swiftly dip your wet fingers into molten lead without being burnt because the steam acts as a shield. Science is awesome.
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from a plethora of New Who episodes including; The Day of The Doctor; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.
> 
> -


	7. The Ninth Regeneration BURNS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> And here the Time War comes to an end (for now).
> 
> A reminder that as far as The War Doctor knows, there are four regenerations left in his future and thus four Doctors to match that count. He assumes there must be a Twelfth Doctor, as he doesn’t know to count Ten ‘regenerating’ twice. (This being said, we know that there is in fact a Twelve.)
> 
> There is much violence in this chapter. People burn to death.
> 
> Most of this chapter also contains a lot of déjà vu as you read it.
> 
> -

-30-

It’s the last day of the Time War and the city of Arcadia is fallen.

He stands on the streets, the roar of battle ringing in his ears. People are screaming, Daleks are shrieking, and the sound of weapons fire does not stop. He stands alone in a courtyard, unarmed and weary. This cannot continue; if this does not end, here and now, the battle for the Capitol will shatter the remaining barriers between the temporal plains and the universe will be set ablaze. All things will be reduced to dust.

He thinks about the High Council and their plans to bring about the End of Time. He thinks about the War Council and their inability to maintain safeguards against the enemy. He watches as hundreds of Daleks continue to pour out of the sky and imagines billions of them descending upon the universe even as it goes up in flames. The Time War MUST end today.

Children are crying nearby.

He makes a decision.

No more.

-

NO MORE

-

“You’re going to end the War.”

He turns. The Rani is leaning against the wall in an alcove to the left side of the doorway. Her hair is red again now, tumbling down around her shoulders and shimmering like wildfire. Her eyes are dull with grief.

“I’m relieved.” She confesses. “It needs to end. And you’re the only one brave enough to risk The Moment.”

“This isn’t bravery.”

“Insanity, then.” She smiles sharply at him. “But madness is nothing new for us high-risk renegades.”

A ghost lingers in the quiet space between them. He is not so hollowed out that his chest does not still ache mournfully for the one who should fill it. The Rani presses one hand against her breastbone, curled over the place where the pendent on her necklace is tucked away beneath her clothes. She closes her eyes and rests her head back against the wall.

She hasn’t been the same since the Cruciform massacre. There have been whispers that perhaps she caught her new found insanity from her Time Lord friend who was unravelled into nonexistence. It doesn’t say much about either of them that they are both hoping there is some truth to this, because it would mean that some small measure of the man still exists.

“I wish you a swift death.” She whispers in a kindly manner.

“Rani. Please, do not grieve for me.” He does not deserve such compassion.

“I’ll do what I want.” Her smile is an unhappy one and her broken laughter follows after him as he continues further into the vault.

He enters the chamber where The Moment rests.

[Somewhere in Time, a consciousness stirs. There is a sigh; the soft brush of lashes as a pair of eyes open in awareness; the soft clack of a tongue against the roof of a mouth.]

He reaches out and lays his hands upon The Moment, lifting it up from the monolith. The instant he takes it, the Time War becomes time-locked; past, present and future now bound to The Moment. The outside universe freezes too, suspended in between the space of two heartbeats, to remain untouched until The Moment is done.

The High Council will detect the time-lock; they will know of his intention.

Rassilon will take advantage of the circumstances, to implement the Ultimate Sanction. The rest of the Council will follow him, any earlier reservations on their part swept away in the face of their fear of The Moment. They would all rather risk bringing forth the End of Time and an eternal existence beyond it than surrender their chance of victory to a weapon whose judgement will weigh their souls in balance.

He has a small window in which to act before the Ultimate Sanction is passed; if Rassilon intends to tear the fabric of Time apart without the use of an artefact as powerful – and sentient – as The Moment, he will need to locate something to act as a tether. It would take a significantly complex space-time anchor to contain the consequences of such an act, and he would not have put it past Rassilon to have attempted to use HIM, if he had not made his decision to seize The Moment.

Fortunately, the only other Time Lord who has broken the Rules enough to have been a potential target is beyond their reach now.

Aeons ago, walking through the Death Zone as he played Rassilon’s Game, The Second Doctor had reflected that the misuse of power by their ancestors was a trend that the High Council had continued with. Now here he stands, aeons later, and nothing has changed.

He uses the recall device to summon his TARDIS directly to him for a swift exit, even though he knows that doing so will trigger the security alerts for the outer vaults. The TARDIS materialises so closely to him that his boots are almost brushing the base of the police box. The doors open by themselves and close behind him as soon as he is inside.

The War Council will detect the security breach; they will also know of his intention.

The General will be horrified, but even he will not truly understand the weight of what it means to determine your own fate with the power of an ancient Time Lord artefact.

Aeons ago, at one of the beginning threads of this War, The Seventh Doctor had discerned the truth of it; that any Time Lord artefact of the Dark Days does not give what has been sought, only what was promised. The Hand of Omega had wrought a supernova whilst vaporising Skaro; for as one force is imbued with Time, another shall be devoured by the empty void that comes from Time’s absence.

The Moment shall be no different. A weapon of mass destruction that is capable of ending the War, but there is a price of desolation that must be paid for it. And the being who dares to invoke such power shall be destroyed in the process.

It is difficult to say how the War Council will respond to his action, though he would not put it pass them to attempt to barricade themselves away to ensure their own survival and allow everything else turn to ash. Sometimes the worst action you can take is to do nothing. The Second Doctor had wanted to convey that at his trial, firm on the point that the Daleks and the Time Lords were both prime examples of the most wretched evil that existed in the universe, even if back then it had been for different reasons.

Cass had said the Time Lords were no different to the Daleks. Perhaps she had been right.

He sets The Moment down on the floor beside him. He caresses his thumb along the edge of the console wistfully and his smile is bittersweet. “One last flight, old girl. You and me.”

The sounds the engines weave around him as they take off are haunting and mournful, but layered with a deep and eternal love.

-

[There have been fearful whispers on both sides of the conflict about the only Time Lord Warrior who has existed inside the War without having once regenerated. Then The War Doctor vanishes from the battleground as suddenly as he had appeared, absconding from the fighting with The Moment, and terror becomes full blown hysteria. THE weapon of mass destruction, complete with a conscience and the ability to stand in judgement of the one who would use it. There is only one man who would even try.]

-

When he emerges from the TARDIS, it is into a sliver of Time that is disconnected from the rest; severed away from the universe and even from the Time War. A small moment crafted by The Moment, to exist solely for this purpose. Here, they are alone, three beings of Time – a Lord; a Machine; and a Weapon.

The Time here is altered, and so is the space that this used to be; the land has been long scorched into a lifeless waste by the flames of War. Far gone are those green fields he had spent his youth in. There is naught now but barren sand, as far as can be seen.

He walks slowly, heading aimlessly away from the TARDIS, a large sack hauled over his shoulder. He lets the weight of it settle across his back, his shoulders, desiring a physical manifestation of the burden that his decision carries.

Time Lords of Gallifrey, he thinks. Daleks of Skaro. I serve notice on you all. Too long have I stayed my hand. No more. Today, you leave me no choice. Today, this War will end.

No more. No more.

He keeps walking. Eventually a small construct comes into view on the horizon. It’s a barn, it’s the barn, broken down and decrepit. It’s also impossible: he and The Master tore it down centuries ago. He heads towards it anyway.

He knows that returning to this barn, here and now, is both a message and a punishment. Aeons ago, The Third Doctor had confessed to the only member of authority he has ever respected that he could have very easily turned out like The Master. They had both been so alike when they were children. The names they had chosen had been promises to themselves and each other. And here in the Time War, those promises have been broken. The Master of Death is dead. And it is Not The Doctor who shall use this Moment to end it all.

The door still creaks just like it used to. There are wilted leaves strewed across the ground inside. The wood of the structure is old and worn. It will all go up very quickly – kindling for the spark of the inferno he is about to ignite.

He sets the sack on the ground and uncovers The Moment again. The mechanisms inside whir and he skims his fingers over the casing, searching for an interface with which to access the operating system. “Why is there never a big red button?”

There is a breeze that rustles through the leaves. It’s not the wind itself that disturbs his concentration but the feeling that there is another presence nearby, despite the fact that he should be isolated here. Frowning, he gets up to peer outside.

“It’s nothing.” The voice comes from behind him, from within the barn, and he whirls around. A young woman with bright blonde hair is seated upon The Moment. “It’s just a wolf.” She says, a distant smile in her eyes.

Time flickers, displaced by her presence.

“YOU’RE the interface?”

“They must have told you The Moment had a conscience.” She smiles and waves at him.

He looks from her to the artefact he is still kneeling beside. So she is the personification of The Moment’s conscience. This makes more sense, as to why she is present here. She calls him ‘Doctor’ as she speaks of him. “You know me?”

“I hear you.” Her voice resonates with power. “All of you.” He wants to protest, to say that while there have been other Doctors, he is the only one of them who is Nameless. But what use is there in semantics now, when all that The Doctor ever was shall BURN away beneath him? So he remains silent. “I chose this face and form especially for you,” she declares, almost proudly. “It’s from your past…or possibly your future; I always get those two mixed up.”

He doesn’t recognise her. But. “I don’t have a future.”

She ignores this interjection. “I think I’m called…” She pauses and stares at him with a fierce intensity. “Bad Wolf.” Her eyes glow brightly with Time energy, lighting her up from the inside. She asks if he is afraid, addressing him by Name again.

This time, he does not let it go unchallenged. “Stop calling me ‘Doctor.’” He doesn’t want it, he isn’t worthy of it. “I’ve lost the right to be The Doctor.”

Time rakes over him as The Bad Wolf sees into him, sees the suffering, sees his conviction to end the War the only way he can.

She watches him with a strange mixture of empathy and defiance. “And you’re going to use me to end it? By killing them all?” He turns away. “Daleks and Time Lords alike. I could. But there will be consequences for you.”

When are there ever not consequences for him?

He is honest with The Bad Wolf. “I have no desire to survive this.” A depressive exhaustion hits him all at once and he moves to sit down upon an old tyre. She is already seated beside him as he does so, her face soft with contemplation.

“Then that’s your punishment. If you do this, if you kill them all, then that’s the consequence.” She looks at him, and her eyes are fierce and terrible but not without pity as she pronounces her judgement. “You live.”

Aeons ago, The Brigadier’s eyes were shadowed with grief as he spoke to The Eighth Doctor. “This choice will always be yours, Doctor, and yours alone. I just want to know that you’ll LIVE with your choice.” Several lifetimes before that, The Third Doctor had despaired over an incident in which every single alien present on earth that day had been ruthlessly slaughtered, no matter which side of the conflict they had belonged to – except for one very noticeable exception – and he had acknowledged that moments such as these made him despise the fact that he always survives. Why must he always live?

He will live. He will have to live with it. He will have to live with himself.

He has made many difficult decisions over the years that he has had to live with. This one is more horrific than anything he has ever done. Nevertheless, his life is not so valuable that the fate of it would influence the choice he has made. This War will ensure mutual genocide occurs one way or the other, but if he can save the rest of the universe with his decision here, then so be it. Even if it comes at the cost of his own soul.

“Gallifrey. You’re going to burn it. And all those Daleks with it, but all those children too.”

He does not look at her when she asks how many children there are, there, right now. She is surely capable of answering the question herself, but the question is not for her sake; it is for his. An old memory flickers across his thoughts of children before they were Named; The Doctor, The Master, and The Rani, laughing and playing in green fields. Now those fields are burnt to nothing, and those children long dead.

“I don’t know.”

The Bad Wolf overlays his memory with others and the joyous laughter echoes on and on in ghostly whispers. “One day, you will count them.” She promises. “One terrible night.” She moves closer to him, as though offering a secret. “Do you want to see what that will turn you into?”

He turns towards her then, helplessly, his gaze shifting though he still does not yet meet her eyes. HIS life is not so valuable, but if he is to live, then what of his future selves?

There is a sudden tear in the fabric of Time and Space, a fissure opening up before them. “I’m opening windows on your future.” She explains. “The tangle in Time through the days to come, to the man today will make of you.”

Familiar voices murmur faintly in his memory, of “days to come” and “love to long ago.” She is offering to break the First Rule for him, so that he may meet the man that must continue to live on in the aftermath of his conviction. If he consents, he knows that Time will condemn him with consequences for this too.

-

He has previously wondered about what regeneration would bring if he was to perish during the War, about how it would affect the Title – or lack thereof – of his next self. He has never entertained notions of life beyond this War. He will be glad that any of his future selves will be able to be The Doctor again, regardless of what he has made of his existence. And before he uses The Moment to End the Time War, he should face The Doctors that will survive him.

So he makes another decision. He hopes this one will not be as devastating as his last one shall be.

“I want to see my future.”

-

He gets to his feet, intending to enter the time fissure, but she shakes her head. “This time is still in the past; removed from the future.” Her eyes glow with temporal energy. “I’m bringing your future selves to you instead.”

He admits he is surprised by the apparent ease of his transgression this time around, though it probably has more to do with the fact that he is doing this for the first time. He knows that it will be far more painful for his future selves, when they live through this experience.

The world goes white around him.

He blinks. His eyes adjust almost immediately and he notices that he has company. “Doctor?”

There is a young man standing before him, staring at him in disbelief, in trepidation. He is wearing a black leather jacket. “You,” he breathes in horror. Then his face contorts with loathing, his eyes filling with a cruel hatred, his hands curling into fists. “You!” He launches himself forwards.

His future self’s fingers pass through his neck rather than fasten around it. They both rock back in surprise, realising they cannot touch.

As first impressions go, this does not bode well. He feels torn between the crushing disappointment and the bitter relief that his future self cannot touch him. It is probably for the best. Even so, THIS is the man who will replace him?

His future self laughs bitterly. “Fantastic. Why is it that Time can be changed by any stupid ape that wants to undo their own grief, and yet – my entire planet died, my whole family! And here you are and I can’t even…” He trails off, clenching his fists again. “I can’t change what you did. What we did.”

‘Nine,’ The Bad Wolf’s voice echoes into his ear.

Nine. As in, The Ninth Doctor. Good, he thinks; in the future the ones that survive him do take up the Name of Doctor again. It was worth the violence that had immediately ensued upon meeting The Ninth Doctor to know that the man who comes directly after him is The Doctor again. Though he wonders how The Ninth Doctor’s life was and will be coloured by his life, he is kinder than to ask.

“I hate you.” Nine tells him. “I wish I could kill you.”

When he was a youth and the First Rule was merely a hypothetical imperative that was reiterated to them in stuffy classrooms, the professors used to scare them with suggestions of accidently unravelling one’s time stream. But what would happen if you chose to deliberately murder your past incarnation?

He acknowledges Nine’s pain. “I know.” His other self is beginning to turn transparent. Whenever he has come from must be a fractured timeline and this version of Nine is fading away as the new timeline inserts itself. They don’t have long together. He doesn’t know what he can possibly say though, because nothing can make this right.

“You killed them all.”

“I know.”

Nine shudders, hands pulling his jacket around him defensively, like armour. He closes his eyes. “I want NOTHING to do with you!” His voice is thick with anguish. “Go and BURN.” The ‘with everything else that you BURN’ is unspoken, but understood.

“This is for me.” He agrees with Nine softly. “Go back to your life; go and be The Doctor that I could never be.” He is glad that this man will live, despite him. “Make it worthwhile.”

Nine blinks his eyes open. He vanishes completely before anything else can be said. He exhales slowly. That had gone far better than he had deserved.

Aeons ago, The Seventh Doctor had torn a man apart with his words, speaking to Kane of the annihilation of his people, the obliteration of his planet, the explosion that had caused the destruction of his entire race. Such devastation would surely BURN. How much worse would it feel to have done it yourself?

This is not a decision he is making lightly. And just because he knows that he WILL do it – as evidenced by the words of his future self – it does not mean that he shouldn’t still be held accountable for the decision.

Aeons ago, The Sixth Doctor had murdered an Androgum whilst struggling with knowledge from the future and foreign instincts from the past. He had no choice, and yet, he had told himself that even so, his decision was being made without bias. That decision had cost one life, to save two others and his own, twice over; his decision today will cost billions of lives, but the universe will survive. As will The Ninth Doctor, and The Doctors that follow him.

He will do his best to have faith that Nine is more than what he had just seen; a man born in battle, full of blood and anger and revenge. The Ninth Doctor will be more than that. He has to be, for this to mean anything. He touches his fingers to his neck. He doesn’t blame Nine for trying to kill him.

He, himself, has murdered an alternate incarnation before. It is difficult to specify whether The Valeyard was his past, present, or future – probably some combination of all three, given the unique circumstances of his shadowed existence. And while both he and The Valeyard have proven their willingness to kill another version of themselves, it is not something he wanted to put to test with an actual Doctor. The ones who can call themselves The Doctor deserve more than that.

And what of The Valeyard? When they had faced each other, he remembers being disturbed by the other man’s madness. “How much do you know?” He had asked sombrely. “How much do you remember?” When The Valeyard had presided over The Sixth Doctor’s trial, his expression had contorted with an undiscernible emotion as he spoke of genocide. He must have been aware on some level that their future would BURN.

-

The Bad Wolf’s eyes glow with temporal energy again. The world goes hazy around him, the previous white softening into a cool mist dampened with blue light, like the reflective atmosphere found in an underground aquarium or a forest glen with a running spring.

There is a young man standing before him, staring at him in disbelief, in trepidation. He is wearing a brown suit, drenched wet from head to toe and his breath rattling in his lungs as he inhales. “Doctor.” He has a very familiar sort of face he feels [“because you will remember”], but the memory that prompts this thought is raw and blistering when he attempts to reach for it.

[Somewhere in the past and the future there is a Time Crash amid two Doctors. There is an Event between them that does-not-yet-exist/that does now exist/that does-still-yet-exist, a fixed temporal occurrence that BURNS with such violence that it sears the fabric of their thoughts.]

[Five is burning, Ten is burning, and somewhere in between them, somewhere in Time, a Nameless self is BURNING…but not yet.]

So he puts this train of thought aside. He watches the numb disbelief on his other self’s face deepen into dismay. “You.” He says faintly. “How can you be here?”

He takes a step towards his future self, who jerks back defensively, brandishing his sonic screwdriver out in front of him in a ridiculous display. He chastises him immediately, more irately than he means to. “It’s a scientific instrument, not a water pistol!”

He believes he may be responsible for this. That his existence has corrupted them on such a fundamental level that his future self cannot even hold his sonic screwdriver anymore without treating the equipment as a weapon, is abhorrent. What else has he done to them, these Doctors that come after him?

‘Ten,’ The Bad Wolf’s voice echoes into his ear.

The screwdriver is lowered back down to his side as Ten shakes his head slowly. “This is impossible. I shouldn’t be here; YOU shouldn’t be here.” He begins to shiver, though it is hard to determine if this is a reaction to his presence, or the fact that Ten is still dripping with water. “This is some sort of temporal anomaly; time folding back in on itself.” His eyes glint angrily, his sentence structure losing coherency as his anxiety mounts. “It’s – wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey…”

“Timey-wimey?” He repeats incredulously. The words ‘Timey-wimey’ feel strange on his tongue, so much so that he experiences a brief instant of disassociation.

[“Wibbly-wobbly” – “Timey-wimey” – “Where are you now?” – somewhere in Time, another self is BURNING…but not yet.]

In that disorientating instant, he thinks he can see blurred figures somewhere behind Ten. There is a woman who resembles The Bad Wolf talking with another woman, and the soft waves of her red hair make him think of The Rani. The Rani, who he is going to BURN along with the rest of the Time Lords, and all of the Daleks.

He refocuses on the young self in front of him, and wonders if his tendency to talk like a child is because he is ashamed of himself, ashamed of him. “The way you look at me.” He says cautiously. “I’m trying to think of a better word than dread.”

Ten’s words are cold when he ventures them, ice and steel woven beneath them. “It must be really recent for you.”

The Bad Wolf tells him to ask what he needs to know. Though he is very aware that her purpose is to stand in judgement on him and his decision, the compassion in her voice gives him the courage to speak. “Did you ever count?” He knows the question will distress him but he needs to know. The Bad Wolf had said that he would count, one night. “How many children there were on Gallifrey that day.”

The Tenth Doctor freezes. As he predicted, he has hurt him. Then Ten’s eyes narrow. The answer to this question is provided instantly, Ten’s tone bleak. “Two point four seven billion.”

The number ricochets around his mind. The sense of him that is most attuned to memories of The Fifth Doctor heightens his awareness of the number: 2.47 billion. 2.47 BILLION children.

He wonders which one of them it was that counted, and what it was that drove them to do so.

Ten flickers suddenly, transparency setting in as their time together draws to an end. His sonic screwdriver falls limply from his hand, vanishing before it hits the floor. Ten’s posture slumps, misery settling into him until he is the very embodiment of regret, as though he is too tired to hold onto his sharp coldness. Whereas The Ninth Doctor had actively wanted to destroy him, Ten seems resigned to only being able to wound himself instead.

“You need someone to stop you.” Ten whispers, and tears roll down his face before he fades away.

-

He has met two of them now, two of his future selves, both who were infuriated and ready to tear themselves apart. Both of them, poised on the brink of war with another self. Unlike him, they should be good men. But evidently his existence has acted like a cancer, afflicting them with a sickness that does not abate. He is the soldier, while they are physicians. They should not be like this, so ready to destroy themselves.

“I don’t know who you are,” he says into the abrupt silence. “Either of you.” His voice seems to shatter apart the tension left in their wake.

“They’re you.” The Bad Wolf’s voice rings with a conviction of her own and he meets her eyes as it resonates within him. “They’re what you become if you destroy Gallifrey.” Her eyes are deep pools of sorrow.

So this is what the future will bring for them. Abruptly, he thinks of the dream he had about the incarnations of The Doctor, of the wall of fire that separated him from his future and the four or five bodies on the other side of those flames. He assumes that those future selves are to be Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve, with perhaps a shadow of The Valeyard lingering on the fringes. The Valeyard had been borne during their twelfth regeneration after all, and while he now sleeps back within their psyche, the time has not yet arrived in which his awareness first grew.

His thoughts turn to the – as of yet – unmet Eleventh Doctor. Seconds ago, two Doctors had both been ready to harm another self. The Sixth Doctor’s hatred for The Valeyard was so profound that he had been intent to murder him before he existed; does Eleven deliberately attempt to murder The Valeyard during their twelfth regeneration? It is a sobering thought, to consider that The Eleventh Doctor is capable of such a thing, intentionally denying another self the right to exist.

The Sixth Doctor was anger and had easily been capable of murderous intent, struggling to keep control of it. He had succeeded when it had most mattered; not harming The Rani and The Master as he had feared he may. Is this all it takes, to turn a Doctor from intent to commitment? His life and his conviction?

He reflects on The Valeyard’s madness when the reconvergence was upon them; his desire to make all The Doctors suffer by destroying him. But they may have thanked The Valeyard had he succeeded; these Doctors would cut him out if they could, and they would be right to do so.

“The Moment is coming.” The Bad Wolf insists. “The Moment is me. You have to decide.” She knows that he has already elected to BURN; she is awaiting his decision on his other selves, on whether he has seen what he needs of them and is prepared to return to that fragment of time where The Moment awaits him.

Is this all that The Doctors are to be? Broken shards of colourful pain and remorse, having long since shattered under the force of their horror at him? Have they been reduced to nothing more than wasted echoes of life? His chest aches, the hand-like scar seared onto his flesh throbbing almost vindictively at the thought.

“No.” He won’t let them do this to themselves. “Just…NO.”

The conviction of that single syllable reverberates around him.

The Valeyard would find pleasure in watching any Doctor destroy themselves but The Watcher – another alternate aspect intertwined into their existence across time – The Watcher would likely mourn them all regardless, himself included. He wonders whether The Watcher would even mourn The Valeyard and at the thought, to his surprise, the pain around his scar lessens.

He turns his thoughts back to the approaching Moment and reflects on the choices that were made by The Doctors in his past. He remembers when this all began, in one sense; with The Fourth Doctor standing on Skaro and with the suggestion put to him of finding a way to avert the creation of the Daleks. The Fourth Doctor had been determined not to allow the moment he made his decision to be marred by any sort of emotional bias, particularly hatred. He had known the choice would have far reaching consequences, even if he had not been able to anticipate the particulars. Even the High Council had possessed some inkling of the devastation that could be wrought, predicting a time when the Daleks succeeded in destroying all other life forms and becoming the dominant creature in the universe. And that is precisely what will occur if the Daleks win this War.

The Fourth Doctor had been given three options at the genesis of the Daleks. When he had been left with only the one – with genocide – he had considered whether he would need a new Name.

He is already Nameless.

“Have I that right?” The Fourth Doctor had wondered, with the moment in his hands and not knowing what to do with it. He had been more grateful that he could say at the intervention which prevented him from pressing those two wires together and had vowed that he would never allow himself to be placed in a situation like that again. And now, aeons later, here he stands, on the brink of The Moment.

Back when The Fourth Doctor had made his final decision, he did not know whether he regretted it or not; whether he could do something different if he had that moment again. The Fourth Doctor had refused to look back and reconsider his choice. And so when The Fifth Doctor was confronted with a similar scenario, if on a smaller scale, when he had thought back on the choices of his predecessor and the two small wires that could have wrought genocide, he had concluded the early judgement a mistake. “Once before, I held back from destroying the Daleks.” He had said. “It was a mistake I do not intend to repeat.” He is grateful that The Fifth Doctor had never been given this choice, and had kept his Name.

He is grateful that all of The Doctors had kept their Names, and that the ones to come reclaim the Name for themselves.

-

The Bad Wolf’s eyes glow with temporal energy again. The world goes dim around him, the previous reflective mist flattening into a shroud of opaque shadows, the atmosphere like that of a graveyard with ghosts lingering just beyond the veil.

He wonders if this is what the universe will become if he doesn’t end the War. When the War first began The Eighth Doctor, with his intimate understanding of death, had known that if these flames caught hold then everything would BURN. So many worlds have already been consumed by the War. But he has the ability to save the rest.

By killing everyone on both sides of the conflict.

Perhaps The Eighth Doctor had subconsciously perceived this too; he had known death, had known that both sides would burn each other up on the planes of Time, even if he couldn’t have foreseen how. He forces himself to imagine what it will look like, when he ends this.

Aeons ago, after Rassilon’s awakening but before The Nightmare King, there had been an incident in The Rani’s laboratory with a stasis cube. They had been assisting her with the construction of a chemical warhead when it overloaded. He had been holding a stasis cube at the time – he and The Master had been reminiscing about the time they had used one to somewhat-accidently trap one of their Academy lecturers inside a painting of a twelve-dimensional chronograph. He had hurled the stasis cube at the warhead and it had made contact just as the casing ruptured. The explosion had been suspended within a bubble of frozen time, unstable and fluctuating, but it had held long enough for the three of them to evacuate from the lab.

He had later remarked that the visual of the immobile detonation had been striking. The Rani’s only comment had been to bemoan the two centuries worth of work that she would have to redo. The Master, however, had taken every opportunity to remind him of his observation for at least the next six campaigns.

He thinks of that frozen explosion and imagines it is Gallifrey.

He closes his eyes.

As he tries to breathe through his tangle of grief – which he is aware will be nothing compared to the grief that is to come afterwards – he thinks once more of a man called Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, whose eyes were shadowed with a grief of his own. He remembers the man as he was in his younger years; headstrong and committed to his duty. He remembers the letter he left, the man who wanted him to live with his choice, and despair consumes him. He thinks of the words he had put to paper, his declaration that he had chosen to become the Warrior necessary to do what he must to stop the Daleks and the Time Lords alike from destroying everything. His recognition that he had played a part in the events that had led him here, and his decision to face the consequences. And most damningly, his conviction to see the Time War through to its end.

He is Not The Doctor, but he is also Nameless. While The Watcher and The Valeyard bore Titles of their own to distinguish them in their own right, he does not. Being deemed a ‘Warrior’ does not count; it was The Eighth Doctor who had determined that the choice of what was needed for this War should be left to a Warrior, but a warrior is not what he is. He made himself to be conviction; this is the truth of what he is and he bears no Title for it. Even the false Title he has been bestowed with does not belong to him. The Master had been the one to Name him The War Doctor.

He knows that this is not a decision The Doctor will ever be able to live with.

The Nameless Warrior who commits this act will have to be dead to The Doctors for them to live with themselves.

So be it.

He remembers a King, standing beneath a shadow of death, mourning the inevitable loss that rises on the horizon with the sun. “Some battles are lost long before they are fought, Merlin.” The King sinks to his knees with a benediction on his lips. Blood soaks the ground and Arthur dies with peace in his eyes knowing that the most important person in his life will be saved.

Sometimes it is impossible to believe that The Master really is gone forever.

-

[The world is a shroud of opaque shadows, the atmosphere like that of a graveyard with ghosts lingering just beyond the veil. One projection drifts through the time vortex. He opens his mouth but he cannot speak, his voice can only scream with the pain of The Doctor he was torn from. This Moment is not the one that is prepared for. All he can do is act as a silent Watcher. He wishes he could be there for this. There is another who flickers on the edges of a Dream. He laughs and laughs and laughs, and whistles to himself like a bird. Nothing gives him greater satisfaction than to have a Doctor unmake himself, even if the man who does so is Nameless. Oh, he wishes he could be there for this!]

-

The Bad Wolf’s eyes glow with temporal energy once more. The world goes ashen around him, the previous shroud of opaque shadows thickening into curling smoke that smells and tastes of fire.

There are voices whispering behind him, distant and indiscernible at first. Then one voice coalesces into comprehension.

“The Name I chose is The Doctor.” The words tremble in the air as they are spoken. “The Name you choose, it’s like, it’s like a promise you make.” There is an anguished pause, as though the upcoming words are a truth that desperately wants to become forgotten. “He’s the one who broke the promise.”

He does not turn around, not yet. “What I did.” What he will do. “I did without choice.”

“I know.” Comes the pained reply. “But not in the Name of The Doctor.”

This makes him turn. He sees the young man who has already started to walk away from him, cradling an unconscious woman in his arms, her features obscured by the smoke. The man pauses and glances back, as though unable to help it. The young man stands before him, staring at him in disbelief, in trepidation. He is wearing a bow tie.

‘And Eleven.’ The Bad Wolf’s voice echoes into his ear.

Eleven’s brow furrows as he frowns, exuding a sense of furious disappointment and frustration. His breath catches in his throat as he is struck by the thought that Eleven suddenly reminds him of The Brigadier. Neither of them speak – what else is there to say? After a brief silence in which they look at each other, Eleven shakes his head once and turns away again. His demeanour suggests that he is already trying to forget and will be grateful once he does.

He keeps his eyes upon his other self until Eleven and his companion disappear.

-

He is about to murder billions of people, to save infinitely more.

He can justify the decision, but he knows that doesn’t make this right. Not even during the Dark Days had there been a massacre on this scale.

The Sixth Doctor had committed genocide once before. He had sat in a courtroom and forced himself to endure the horrific simplicity of it, the sense of inevitability and acquiescence. The words that had sealed his fate had been no less truthful for their hollowness. “A question of self-preservation, kill or be killed;” “a conflict in which there can be no justice;” “there’s no choice and that goes for you too, Doctor.”

He turns his head towards The Bad Wolf. She watches him patiently.

-

The Doctors that follow him regret his decision. He has seen it in their eyes, and he knows that they would do anything to change it.

But he thinks of how many worlds that regret will save. Millions of children will die, but if there is at least one out there who will live, that will be enough for him.

He had told Davros in the early days of the War that he would do what he must for the sake of peace. That he is willing to burn himself so that peace could be had by everyone else.

It does not matter if Nine, Ten, Eleven, and even Twelve never make peace with him and what he has chosen to do. They will be The Doctor, and that means far more to him than his own Nameless life could ever be worth.

Let The Twelfth Doctor remain free of the memory of him.

He speaks to The Bad Wolf. “I’ve seen all I needed. The Moment has come.” It is time. “I’m ready.”

“I know you are.”

-

[Beyond The Moment, there is a Doctor with intensity in his eyes and a number to his Name that his predecessor had thought beyond their count. He tries to reach back, to find The War Doctor and explain why that Title means more than was thought, but Time is not so easily changed. Between The Moment and Nothingness the Conviction shall become Consequence; The War Doctor stands alone within a void of cold ruin, one that he will create for himself by breaking the Rules. The Consequence of The Moment lies beyond the Rules of Time and that which was severed cannot be reconnected again.]

-

He stands back in the barn again, with The Moment before him. The artefact is transformed now.

“Well you wanted a big red button.”

She asks him if he is sure. “I was sure when I came in here.” He IS conviction and this decision must be made, no matter the consequences. “There is no other way.”

“You’ve seen the men you will become.”

“Those men?” Those young boys who, despite HIM, still live. “Extraordinary.” He wishes he could have known them better, but at least he knows them at all.

She smiles affectionately at the direction of his thoughts. “They were you.”

“No. They are The Doctor.” She tries to insist that he is The Doctor too, but he knows he is Not. “Great men are forged in fire. It is the privilege of lesser men to light the flame.” He inhales. “Whatever the cost.” He raises his hand, hovers it over the button as memories of children laughing dance across his thoughts.

The Moment is Now.

The Bad Wolf does not speak. It is not yet the Time to.

His life had begun by tearing himself apart to become something new. He still maintains that the mutilation he has wrought upon himself is worth the preservation of the others. It shall always be.

In his last moments, The Eighth Doctor had been grateful as the memory of Salyavin had come to mind; the young renegade who severed himself from his other self and what he had become as a result. The Eight Doctor had been grateful that, for all his faults, at least he could still claim to be The Doctor. But as he thinks of Salyavin now, it is with a steadily mounting conviction to do what is right by his future selves.

The Valeyard’s words ring out in his memory, about deserving consequences, about deserving to be erased. He had responded with a rhetorical question about what he would do to spare The Doctors from being him.

He inhales slowly and tastes death in the air, an echo of The Eighth Doctor’s sense lingering under his skin. He knows how far he will go, for the sake of life.

He is ready to die, so that everyone else may live. He places his hand atop the button. His fingers shake with grief.

He stands here, alone, with the eyes of The Bad Wolf upon him as he breathes his last. Despite the circumstances, her presence is somewhat appreciated.

This is not fear. This is not hatred. There is no other way. This is for all the lives that he cannot save. The Master, who is amongst those already dead and lost because of this War; The Rani, who will perish as one amongst trillions in order to see it ended. This is for all the lives that he CAN save.

His hand rests upon a big red button in the space of a Moment.

[The Bad Wolf senses the echo of two other hands resting over his in a Moment removed from this Time.]

He thinks of all the people he is going to BURN.

He thinks once more of The Master and The Rani, of his friends, of the three children that they had been, many years and many lives ago. He remembers the accidents that were never really accidents. He thinks it would have been kinder if they had only hated him, the way he hates himself.

But there isn’t anything he can do. The fires of War are already bleeding into the universe at this point and only The Moment is keeping the War from spilling out into linear time. If the War does not End, then everything else will.

The world goes dark around him. He does not want this. But what else is there to do?

He is Not a Doctor.

He had made himself a promise, when he was a child. Even though HE has not borne their Title, he still remembers. Never cruel or cowardly. Never give up. Never give in. He feels like crying, but he has no right to tears when he is about to set the world aflame.

He cares nothing for himself. But he does care for The Doctor. He meets The Bad Wolf’s gaze. “Forgive them my existence.” He closes his eyes.

No more.

-

The button is pressed, and The Moment is unleashed.

In another Time, there will be further Consequences. But as of Now, all that there is in this Moment is the BURNING.

-

[All time-sensitive beings across the universe are peripherally aware of when it happens – they are seized by a sense of horror so strong it near asphyxiates them. But their pain is minimal compared to those inside the fire.]

It begins with the Dalek fleet. Ten million ships catch alight as their time ends, a billion billion Daleks shriek in anguish as they are scorched away. They feel PAIN; they FEEL pain. They are exterminated by the Storm they have always feared.

The planet Skaro, afflicted by its own temporal fluctuations, is pulled into this Moment. It becomes lucid and whole as it has not been since the Actuating Incident that befell it, made present just to be destroyed all over again. The world crumples in upon itself and turns to ash.

The flames spread, rising up through the very heart and soul of over a million TARDISes. The outside casings shatter as the inside space screams. Every TARDIS that was, is, and shall be – bar the one still suspended in a frozen sliver – is eaten away. Sentience is replaced by dead circuits and the lifeless machines wither.

Horror fills all of the Time Lords as the inferno claims them.

[Somewhere in the linear time that exists in the wake of The Last Great Time War, an old woman on her deathbed is sent into cardiac arrest. Suspended fleetingly between life and death, she is aware of the vast BURNING that ravages the fourth dimension. Her last conscious thought is of her grandfather and she prays that he will be alright. He promised her that he would be all right. The BURNING fades from her awareness and so the breath before she passes into death is calm and peaceful.]

In the nucleus of a supernova, suspended within the breach of the first star, the Could’ve Been King stirs from his semi-conscious state. Long ago, when he had been great, when he had been Omega, he had mocked a Doctor with a weapon in his hand, claiming he would never have the courage to use it. He had been wrong then, and so he is not surprised by the flames that consume them all now. He recognises this act for what it is; this is not a cruelty, this is amnesty.

Sentient effigies that stand within a tomb are rendered to charcoal, their physical forms coming apart at the seams faster than their minds do. As Borusa splinters he stops cursing the youngest incarnation of the renegade that believed he deserved the immortality he had sought, and curses the current incarnation who has given them all death instead. Castellan Kelner’s proximity results in an over-exposure to Borusa’s regeneration energy. He becomes unregenerate even as he runs from the tomb, screaming, heat curling at his back. Panic is widespread as many others try to outrun their fear. Castellan Spandrell, having long ignored the reality of the War, cannot bear to have his delusion ended. Engin hyperventilates; he has overseen the cases for civilian casualties and now he is about to become one himself.

The Facilitator yanks on his hair and hollers maniacally about the Rule Breaker and broken Rules. That Time has come to punish them for their arrogance. This is comeuppance for their sins! Madness and fury sweeps through the halls. Chancellor Goth sees himself turning into a burnt husk and bellows vitriol at a hated renegade the whole time, even as his limbs begin to give out and he collapses to the floor.

Aeons of meditation spent on distancing his mind, Runcible ‘The Fatuous’ finds he has become so far removed that his body has become its own monolith. He cannot move nor truly feel as his flesh is devoured by flames. Many surrender themselves to their helplessness and hopelessness. Cho-Je stands in the ruins of a garden, surrounded by the cleaved exterior of his TARDIS. He does not weep or cry out; what is the point? He is already a ghost. He has been for a very long time. He cradles a solitary yellow flower in his palm, which shrivels up as the heat presses in.

Some await the end quietly. The Castellan reflects philosophically on the ability of the mind probe to remove a portion altogether from an individual’s being; The Moment is in effect doing the same to them on a universal scale. He knows that this Doctor of War does not do this for revenge, but for peace. Some await the end with sorrow. Chancellor Flavia sits in her chambers, still singing wordlessly, even as her skin begins to peel away. So great is her mental discipline that her song continues on long after her vocal cords have fried. Some await the end with a bitter grimness. Azmael is harboured in his private cellar, surrounded by his personal stash of alcohol. He takes several of the bottles and upends them over his head, dousing himself in the flammable liquids. He shall die as he lived, as Edgeworth, as sharp as glass and as volatile as liquor.

Having escaped the medical ward he had been detained in, Commander Andred falls to his knees beside the abandoned casing of K9 Mark I. Though every breath he takes is an act of despair, he is relieved to have made it to his destination. He curls himself protectively around his dead friend and despite his fear he is glad that he is to join the metal dog and his beloved Leela in oblivion.

There are those who face the fire with their sense of duty and honour intact. Inquisitor Sagacity does not leave her communications station, listening to the screams of panic and pain across her servers. She gives meaningless lies to those who can still hear her, offering reassurances as a kindness. Many of the signals cut out as the power relays overload, so she does not know if her efforts are making things better or worse.

Commander Maxil tells himself that he owes the high-risk renegades nothing, that with the echoes removed from his mind and the reconvergence complete, he has no further responsibility for the feelings of one brief incarnation resulting from an imprinted existence. But he cannot stop himself from running through old classrooms and laboratories, screaming for The Rani. The Master is dead and The Nameless War Doctor is BURNING, so who else is there to save her?

Tamen does her best to keep the children under her care calm as the fires descend upon them. She treats the situation like another drill, instructing them to curl up together in the corner and close their eyes. She listens to them cry and finds her own face is wet. Her last act, though, is a primarily selfish one. She throws herself into the wildfire rather than accept the truth of death in her life.

There are a few who make their final stand with small acts of courage. Though always having been temporally unimaginative, Drax still knows enough to be the most afraid he has ever been before. But he rises above it to embrace defiance as he never has. He blows up his own facility, finding the nerve at last to disown weapons in the face of one so terrible. Damon does not stop, continuing with his attempt to flee Arcardia with a small handful of refugees. The child balanced on his hip buries her face in his neck to cry and he whispers ‘please’ to himself and her as he leads the group on. They are enclosed on all sides by the furnace but to stop would be to submit to the terror.

There are rare instances of sudden clarity. In the intensive care ward, Professor Chronotis understands and immediately overdoses on the disassociation drug he had developed. It takes effect almost instantaneously and the man that stands there afterwards is devoid of identity. The tears sliding down his face are all that remains of him, the barest residue of grief over the previous incarnation for whom the drug was named for. Comparatively, The Psychiatrist sits in her office at her desk with two data files open in front of her. On display are semi-transparent projections of two young boys as they had been when first assigned to her. She has long sought understanding of them and now will never know. When the flames roar up behind their eyes, she laughs and finally concedes she could never have unravelled the psyches of either one of them anyway.

Members of the War Council standing around a table shake with fear as they watch the colour of their scanners change. The room is bathed in yellow and orange light that flickers with such fervour that it is indiscernible to the physical flames that follow. They shout and cower; strategies mean nothing if they don’t have the time to implement them. Androgar appeals to The General for direction and leadership, but The General is near obsessed, bent over the console and muttering under his breath about the madness of renegades. He cannot comprehend what they are, why they are, who they are. As the fire takes him, only two words fall from his lips, one after the other on an endless cycle: ‘Doctor’ and ‘who.’

The War Chief is inside a time corridor, but that does not thwart the path of the fire. The corridor exits collapse and then the corridor itself begins to compress, not unlike how a SIDRAT had once closed in upon a fellow renegade. The War Chief roars hatefully and his blood boils in ways unrelated to the physicality of being roasted from the inside. He is sure that somehow, somewhere, the War Lord is laughing at him.

The Meddler tinkers furiously as The Monk prays zealously, both halves of his identity united as never before. But his TARDIS does not respond and he cannot get out. He cannot leave! He does not want to die, and not like this. He pleads and shouts for someone to help him, but no one comes. He is alone with himself as he tries to crawl away from the questing flames.

The Corsair watches as waves of temporal energy bleed out across Gallifrey and the fiery tempest grows. She stares at her hands. She remembers a message she once sent that got lost in time. She remembers holding her TARDIS close to her chest as it died and the words that were spoken. The Corsair ponders the nature of forgiveness. The snake tattoo wound around her left leg is the first thing to begin scorching and it feels like she’s being dissected all over again.

[Behind the barriers of another universe, Romana screams. She is struck down by a full body fever so intense that it triggers a regeneration. Shuddering uncontrollable, she fears that the High Council have managed to breach E-Space without K9, but dismisses the thought almost instantly. The barriers around E-Space are not like most other alternate universes, thus why the Council wanted to use E-Space to banish the Daleks in the first place. The barriers are holding. No, there is only one force powerful enough to transmit this heat to her from her original universe and it had rested in the Omega Arsenal. She knows what is happening and who is responsible. She thinks of her old friend’s amended Title and weeps with grief, for him and for their people. She will spend a lifetime weeping and it won’t be enough.]

Members of the High Council standing in a courtroom erupt into chaos as the sound of their salvation ceases. They shout and cower, unable to comprehend that the Ultimate Sanction has failed them, that Rassilon has failed them. Hedin, still fanatic enough to follow Rassilon into whatever end awaits, appeals to the Lord President for direction and leadership.

“I will not die!” Rassilon bellows. “I will NOT die!” But he cannot escape this descent into hell. The searing pain of The Moment strikes him like jolts of lightning to the chest and his heartbeat stutters; one, two, three, four. He can almost feel the weight of The Doctor’s gaze on him, the laughter of The Master in his ears. His hatred for them is more intense than the fire that consumes him. He can sense the nuances of Time, he knows how close he had been to achieving the Final Sanction only to have been thwarted simply because their friendship and love for one another has always been stronger than their enmity. He loathes that he cannot drag them both after him. He grapples fiercely for the threads of enduring life, but it twists away from him and the laughter still rings in his ears. “Master!” He howls wrathfully. “Doctor!”

“Gallifrey falling!” The Visionary wails. “Gallifrey falls!”

Standing unflinchingly in the firestorm that rages, The Woman continues to cover her face with her hands as though she weeps. She is content that though she cannot be there for the child who is alone at the heart of this Moment, she will be there for him in another Time. She believes that she has made the right choice, of when to be there for that child, as she knows that – as brutal as the truth may be – though the man who commits this act of genocide may be able to live with it in time, The Master has always meant more to him than all of the lives on Gallifrey.

-

Still leaning against the wall, The Rani opens her eyes. The air around her sizzles and crackles as the blaze reaches the vaults. She uncurls the hand resting over her breastbone and reaches higher, towards her neck. Hooking her fingers around her necklace, she drags it smoothly out from beneath her clothes. She slides her thumb across the pendant, tracing across the engraving of the Gallifreyan symbol for ‘geneticist.’ Then she moves to touch the other item she has threaded onto her necklace, her fingers wrapping around the small cross. She remembers two young classmates who had a knack for ruining her biochemistry experiments and laughs brokenly because even now, after everything, she still misses them. She still grieves for them. She shakes her head, her hair shimmering like the wildfire around her, and starts laughing again as the burgundy light of The Cruciform spills out from within her fist. Perhaps it is fitting that this War has led all three of them to become unmade. The light envelops her before the flames do.

-

[The Eternals moan forlornly, pressed against the thin membrane that divides the astral and temporal planes. In the early beginnings of Time, they were once a temporally sensitive race of beings, though this knowledge had been lost to them until the Time War had begun. A war of their own had driven them into their pseudo existence, and so they had been drawn to the ephemerals whose lives echoed with a meaning they could almost reclaim. The potency of the War had allowed them to form independent desires and they all longed for the transcendence; that the Time Lords may ascend to become beings of consciousness alone. The Sanction would have burnt The Eternals out as the Time Lords replaced the space they fill. But The Moment has come and the Lords of Time perish as flesh and blood. Time cannot exist without the Timeless. And so The Eternals are condemned to remain bound to the endless wastes of eternity until the End of Time, when two new guardians of the light and the dark stand together in their perpetual cycle of enmity, and there is one who is ready to claim Enlightenment.]

-

“Chaos has come again.” The Black Guardian cries brokenly. “The universe will dissolve.”

“The Moment shall pass. Life and light shall surface again; death and darkness shadowed within.” Tears track down the White Guardian’s face. “The burden of Enlightenment passes to others now.”

The Guardians stand together in their final moments, seeing beyond the flames around them and perceiving The Moment in which a man ends the Time War by tearing apart his very soul. They bear witness.

“The war still goes on.” The White Guardian laments, even as he burns.

“The war always goes on.” The Black Guardian rasps around the fire in his throat.

Their two expressions as they burn are the same.

-

And as the Time War comes to an end at last, the small pocket of time where the Sisterhood of Karn are sequestered away sizzles away with it. The Sister who had handed The Doctor a chalice smiles peacefully, tears of gratitude sliding down her face. “Thank you.”

[Two Time Agents – one secured within the Eye of Harmony and one bound to the Untempered Schism – scream in terror as the Time War Ends. Most of their minds burn out with it, unable to withstand the pressure despite the temporal perception they have been granted, but they both still live. All that remains of their minds are their memories of The Doctor, The Master, and the choices that led them to this existence. Everything else that was once Kartz and Reimer crumbles to ash and dust.]

[The Valeyard’s mind is ravaged by the BURNING. He can perceive vague recollections beyond the razing fire in his thoughts – there is regeneration and Daleks and extermination; there is regeneration and Rassilon and The Master – but he has already lost the sense of himself before becoming The Valeyard in Name. Madness seizes hold of him. The Master deserves consequences. The Doctor deserves to be erased. And The Nameless Warrior who is Not The Doctor deserves to BURN, in this War, and FOREVER. The time for reconvergence is now upon them, him and the Nameless self who is BURNING.]

[The Curator stands before a painting bearing a fragmented Title that will one day become whole. But in this Moment, as the BURNING ensues, the fragments reflect the current truth: ‘No More’ and ‘Gallifrey Falls.’ He watches as the painting strikes ablaze; it BURNS as Gallifrey does. The woman standing beside him wears an old grin, her umbrella poised elegantly in front of her. Her grin fades as he begins to BURN too, but she does not leave. This time, she won’t let him be alone. His skin turns white, his features melt and his form reducing to a pale shadow, until The Curator has become The Watcher once more. The Watcher is drawn back into the time vortex towards an earlier moment that is prepared for.]

-

[Somewhere in the linear time that exists After the Last Great Time War, at the end of the universe, an old man tosses and turns in an uneasy sleep. He dreams of two forces locked in a violent cycle of war, the inescapable irony that the first battle and the last day end with the annihilation of both sides. He dreams of fire and the never ending sound of drums. He dreams of a warrior all alone and the conviction in his eyes as he BURNS. The old man wakes with an agonised cry. As he lies there, shuddering without knowing why, tears on his face and drums still sounding in his mind, he wonders whether he needs to see a doctor.]

-

He feels them all die. Every Dalek, every Time Lord; every adult, every child. Each instant of time, each relative dimension, each molecule of space. He BURNS with each and every one, with everything, inhabiting this higher temporal plane where the War has waged. The plane itself crumbles to ash, space warping in preparation to fill the void that will be left once the fires are extinguished after this Moment. The flames taper inwards, consuming everything in their path until only the dying husk of Gallifrey remains. The planet blazes fiercely, eaten away by heat and light.

And then the inferno surges into the sliver of disconnected Time that exists only for this Moment. The barn catches alight with the ease he had anticipated, scorching tongues tearing their way through the old wooden boards. The leaves littering the floor curl up on themselves, disintegrating into dust as the heat presses in.

And finally, it reaches him.

[Five is burning, Ten is burning, and somewhere in between them, right now, a Nameless self is BURNING.]

The man who is Not The Doctor screams as he BURNS. The Moment reverberates through his time stream; he feels echoes of The Doctors shiver as he is carved out from them so completely it’s akin to an amputation; they grow fainter as he BURNS hotter. Something deep within him falls away. It’s him, he realises. He is lost to his other selves and he is grateful. He is flayed open as his flesh melts, his nerves fry, and his bones char. He is a corpse held together only by thin strings of Time.

[Salyavin stands alone within a void of cold ruin. It is of his own making and though he does not regret it, he does lament for all he could have been. Then there is a Doctor who has transgressed even worse than he and a book that shows Salyavin the Nameless void in the man’s future. Salyavin mourns for this man, who is lost far beyond that which he achieved, and has shown him he is grateful that his own fate is infinitesimal in comparison.]

The TARDIS screeches, a piercing vibration of distress that permeates the remains of his psyche. The flames eat away at her too, pieces of her outer casing peel away in swathes as she jumps for him, materialising around him in an effort to buffer his pain. Her efforts make no difference; the BURNING rages within her too, still claiming them both. The console is torn apart and her matrix is exposed to the fires. They leach into her heart. She falls silent.

The Moment sighs; there is the soft brush of lashes as a pair of eyes close.

All that is BURNING abruptly plummets into a timeless, motionless abyss.

Oh, he thinks, as his hands begin to glow with golden light. Of course, it makes sense. THIS is what it takes to kill him. Now his consequence is to live. He tilts his head back, preparing to surrender himself to the change.

His thoughts linger on The Master and The Rani.

His final thought is ‘Doctor.’

And then his regeneration begins.

-

There is a silent flash of light, as bright as a sun, that is seen throughout all of time and space. It BURNS all at once and then vanishes.

When it clears, Gallifrey is gone, the Dalek race is decimated, and the Last of The Great Time Wars is Ended.

-

The universe exhales, and then begins to breathe again.

-

He cannot breathe.

He cannot breathe (he does not want to, does not deserve to, god, what has he done) and he chokes on the air already in his lungs. The world is white around him. (But this is his punishment; to survive.) He opens his eyes.

He is lying on the floor, his new flesh made whole and smooth, the ruined fabrics barely clothing him still smoking, crumbling away bit by bit as his chest heaves.

(He can taste blood.)

He thrashes weakly, ripping at the clothes until they’ve fallen away. The bandolier presses into his skin and everything turns dark red, blood red, as he tears hatefully at it. (He wants nothing to do with HIM, cannot bear to share even this small piece of transference with that monster.) He hurls it away from him, the twisted leather and metal clatter dully as it falls, and he curls in on himself, shaking violently.

(He tries desperately not to think of the man who had been breathing before him. That man was Not him. His lungs ache, but he cannot stop breathing. Why can he not stop? Oh, please.)

He doesn’t know how long he lies there for. He never wants to move again, wants to lie there until he fades away, but he doubts he will be allowed such a merciful fate. A future he does not want lies before him, gaping and raw. (But this future is preferable to the past that has destroyed him.) If he cannot stay here like this then he has to drop himself into the unknown to come. Small increments, he thinks. He’s cold. He needs new clothes.

He pushes his limbs underneath him, trying to lever himself up. Hands and knees. Tremors wrack him as he starts to crawl forward. Hand, knee, hand, knee. Then the floor isn’t where he puts his hand and he tumbles forward, crumpling into a heap. He shakes his head, trying to clear the ashy cloud of confusion, gropes around until his hands catch on some debris which he uses to pull himself to his feet. He feels cast adrift, staggering through a grey fog of detachment, finds himself in a corridor without really understanding how. His hands pressed to the walls are the only pieces of him anchored; the rest of him is submerged beneath liquid metal, a molten platinum that drowns out everything else. (He’s cold, he knows he is cold, but this sensation is trying to trick him into believing he is hot, that he is still BURNING. No. No! He is not!)

His hands catch upon a doorframe, jarring him into focus. He stumbles forward into the wardrobe room.

Colour bursts across his vision.

There’s red (anger), dark red (hate), cloying like blood; green (shame) swamps him, soured with an olive (disgust) tint; a storm of blue (sadness) darkens and darkens (despair); purple (fear) takes prominence, blooming into a vivid fandango (stress). Sharp spikes of ivory white (leeching pain and anguish) bite into him.

He recoils in shock. (He recoils from the flame-orange sting that accompanies the feeling.) His back hits the wall and his legs give out; he slides down in an ungraceful heap. He presses the palms of his hands against his closed eyes, resting his forehead on his knees. He forces himself to take evenly spaced breaths until the overwhelming colour-sense is replaced with a reassuring blanket of dark instead. Then he waits a little longer. Then waits some more. (Why can’t he stay wrapped up in this secure vacuum forever?) Finally, he raises his head and cautiously peers through his fingers.

Colours still whisper for his attention, but softly now; his awareness of them now commonplace. He looks past them, through them, and takes in the view of the room.

It’s a mess; pillars have shattered into pieces, debris and dust coating almost every surface. Uneven mounds of clothes are scattered all over the floor (which explains the initial source of all those jumbled colours), most of the fabrics are ruined. (Some are burned.) There’s a gaping hole in the wall on the far side of the room, a pile of twisted metal contorted beneath it. The whole room looks as though a bomb went off. (There had, in fact, been a blast, though not in this room – no, no, don’t think of it.) He shudders. Clothes, he insists to himself firmly.

He crawls to the nearest pile of clothing and digs through it, pulling out the first things he finds that are undamaged and dresses himself in those. There’s no ceremony to it as he pulls on the thin layers; it’s not until he’s done that the memories hit him all at once.

(In a room marked ‘Doctors only’ he borrows some abandoned clothes. They are rather flamboyant, complementing his new persona nicely.) (He’s just decided he doesn’t care if he can’t find any clothes to compliment him when he gets tangled up in a scarf. It’s very long, expertly woven, and yet completely impractical. It’s basically him, made of thread.) (The beige outfit and the celery may suggest his dress sense hasn’t improved much, but he feels like the sum of his parts at last. It’s absolutely splendid.) (He knows precisely who he is, even before he sees The Jacket. It is a patchwork of bright colours and conflicting patterns. It’s gaudy, brash and distasteful. Most importantly, he knows it isn’t so terrible.) (To find out who he is, he begins with who he was; his clothes are a compilation of all the garments he has worn before. Thank goodness he has retained them all.) (He does not know who he is, but he dresses himself in fabrics to shield himself better. He must look after himself as best he can.)

(He holsters the bandolier into place.)

He doubles over, dry heaving, shaking, his vision goes slightly grey around the edges. (He doesn’t want that last memory, distant and far removed as it may be, he does not want it. He does not want ANY of it, any of him.) His legs give out beneath him, his body crumpling. He feels disconnected from himself (as grey pales further, losing its pallor as he loses his breath); the room is an abyss and he is very small, much smaller than should be proportionate to his body. (What if he fades away entirely? Does he care?) His palms slide across the floor as he hunches lower. (Who is he now, what can he call himself now?) A low keen leaves his throat. (He does not want to – he can’t – he cannot face the thought that he – that he is, that he isn’t, that, that – his Name, how can he ever – what is his Name?!)

His fingers brush smooth fabric, pulling his senses back in, grounding him. He concentrates on the sensation until his (pathetic, uncontrollable) emotional episode has subsided. His eyes flicker open (he can’t remember when he closed them) and he finds his fingers grasping tightly at a patch of leather material, the edge lying askew from where the rest is wedged beneath a mound of other clothes. Idly, he tugs it loose.

A black leather jacket slides into his lap. (Jet black, the colour solid, emanating a sense of vigilance.) He clutches it close to his chest as he picks himself back up onto his feet. Then he pulls it on; it rests snugly on his back and shoulders, a firm weight that’s akin to armour. Wrapped in black (in a sense of safety and security), he drudges up his courage, wields a shaky confidence (swirls of onyx and smudges of charcoal plucked from the threads around him) and makes a declaration.

“I am The Doctor.”

(He wants to believe it, he desperately wants to trust in these words – but the words have no colour to them. If he trusted them, he knows they would be ebony smooth.)

“I am The Doctor, I am The Doctor. I am The Doctor.” His breath catches, but he persists. “I – I am The Doctor. I am The Doctor, I am The Doctor. I am – I am The Doctor.” (Isn’t he? Oh, please. He HAS to be.) “I…am…The Doctor…”

(The very first time he regenerated, he had pressed his hands against the console as the engines sang. The TARDIS had recognised him, even when he hadn’t recognised himself. She always does.)

The TARDIS is silent.

Disappointment stings that she hasn’t acknowledged him. (What if she doesn’t know him anymore? What if she doesn’t want to?) But his initial unease promptly gives way to a rush of dread.

The TARDIS isn’t just silent…she’s unresponsive. (Lifeless.)

No. NO.

He runs, blind to anything that isn’t fear (bruising purple), pulsing and roaring. He hurls himself back into the console room and is struck hard by the ruinous sight. The interior of the space has swelled to be much bigger than it was, and the floor can hardly be called that anymore; it is deformed with dips and gorges, and the places where the surface is still flat are covered in rubble. The walls are coated with ash, the roundels have all cracked, and there are wires that have come loose from the ceiling, frayed and tangled around the debris. But the worst of it is that the console unit itself has been rent open. The central column has fractures all over it, pieces of it have shattered away entirely.

He feels sick (a burst of lime as sharp as it is acidic) but he pushes through it, clambering his way over the devastation to the console. When he pulls himself up over a shallow rise to reach it, he finds the base has been pierced, exposing the inside. There is an absence within, no light, no dark, no colour.

Please, no.

(She cannot be dead.)

He throws himself at the console, fumbling with the controls, trying to raise a response from any of the systems. (Please.) But no matter what he does, nothing happens. He pulls wires free, reroutes the connectors, but each new pathway he attempts to create breaks down before it forms, the neural network too degraded to function. “No,” he chokes. “Please.” He drags himself up onto the console and manages to shove his arms through a gap in the central column, to try and restart her engine cycle manually. But the only thing to come of it are several small lacerations on his arms from the damaged machinery. (The wounds are negligible; he would bleed himself out a hundred times, a thousand, if he thought it would help.) He pulls himself free, collapsing down by the base again.

He trembles. (He is caught between a cerulean pool of grief and the looming much darker blue wash of despair.) He stares into the inert bowels of the console unit and tries to think. He has to believe there’s something he can do.

(They had both been BURNING.) After awakening, he had been cold, chilled down to his core. Fundamentally, maybe their impairments are the same. He needs an energy source; something compact, with a considerable output; something that can transmit a signal independently of a receiver; something the TARDIS is familiar with.

The realisation demands his attention with an amber jolt.

He starts pawing through some of the debris, searching. He spots the discarded bandolier lying a few feet away and scrambles towards it. And by some sort of miracle, nestled in one of the straps, is the sonic screwdriver. (He doesn’t remember when he used it last, doesn’t remember when or why he had put it there, but he is overwhelmingly glad that it is there.) He pulls it free, kicking the bandolier away from him again and stumbles with his prize back to the console. He reaches into the gaping hole in the centre of the console, turns on the screwdriver and slides it into a clump of the wires that sit directly under the damaged column. Then he pulls back and waits.

He listens to the low buzzing of the sonic as he watches and waits. The soft blue light of the screwdriver fills the cavern within the console (with a serenity that he does not feel) but, as he leans back slightly to check, there is still that horrible absence that lies in the heart of the TARDIS beneath it. So he waits.

He waits.

But nothing happens.

He leans back over the console, gazing down at the screwdriver. It’s functioning perfectly.

(She’s gone.)

(She cannot be gone.)

(She’s GONE.)

His vision blurs as he starts to cry. (Hopelessness is a navy rope that slithers and coils around him.) He clings to the console as tears slide down his face. They drip down into her exposed core.

There’s a flicker, a flash of colour that catches his notice; a small crackle of energy as a teardrop hits one of the wires. The spark jumps downwards, travelling into the underbelly of the console. He holds his breath.

(Please.)

A gentle glow begins to fill the spaces where the emptiness had been, golden spirals of light breathing life back into the systems it touches. (The golden light IS life.) The light rises up into the core of the central column and there is a stuttered wheeze, groan, as the engines turn over once, a clear statement of consciousness. He thinks it’s the most beautiful sound in the whole universe.

He starts laughing even though he still cannot stop crying. His knees give out and he rests his cheek against one of the edge panels, now lukewarm as energy begins to sluggishly flow through the connectors. He traces his fingers over every part of the console he can reach.

(Thank you. Thank you.)

(He would have spent eternity tending to the corpse of the TARDIS if she had died. He would have deserved such horror, but she does not. He is so, so grateful that she still lives.)

He does not underestimate the severity of her injuries, however. While the TARDIS has survived, the damage to its systems will be extensive. He doesn’t care how long it takes, he will mend her.

“I’ll get you through this, old girl.” He promises. “I’m a Doctor.”

-

It takes him three days to put the console room back into some sort of order so that – on the surface at least – it appears restored. Functionally, most of the systems are still inoperable, but he has diagnostics running constantly on all of the screens. (This is necessary for his own peace of mind, both so that he can periodically check on the progress of the repairs, but mainly so that the screens are not blank. If the screens are blank, their surfaces would be reflective. He does not want to face himself.) The only thing still in the room that’s out of place is the sonic screwdriver, which is propped against a panel on the console as it has been since he retrieved it from the inner cavity.

(The Moment is gone. It was nowhere to be found in the console room when he cleaned it out and he does not know where it is. He does not want to know either. He hopes he never sees it again. He isn’t worried about it falling into anyone else’s hands, wherever it may be; The Moment has a conscience, is self-aware and is entirely able to regulate itself. Besides, no one else would ever dare to use it.)

(He had only consented to touch the bandolier again for as long as it took to throw it into the Eye of Harmony, which had been split open and haemorrhaging time like liquid. While he has resealed the Eye, that room – much like the rest of the TARDIS – is still a disaster; it’s flooded with about three inches worth of temporal fluid. It’s the next room on his list to attend to.)

He picks up the screwdriver, turning it over slowly in his hands. The case is damaged, parts of it having melted away (from the exposure, when everything had been BURNING), and he begins to peel those pieces off. He keeps going until the whole of the outer case is dismantled. He contemplates the rest of the screwdriver.

He wants to destroy it. (It belonged to his predecessor and he wants nothing to do with him.) There’s a recent calculation still running, a subroutine embedded in the software, and he is petty enough to consider deleting it out of spite before he then dismantles the rest of the screwdriver bit by bit. (Maybe even setting the remains alight so that they BURN away to nothing because that’s exactly what he deserves, what they both deserve.) He should destroy it.

But.

The sonic screwdriver saved the TARDIS. If this screwdriver had been lost or damaged to the extent that it was inoperable, if it had been destroyed, he wouldn’t have been able to reanimate the TARDIS. And at the core of this screwdriver is still the same program that he wrote late one night whilst he was at the Academy. It may have undergone many variations since then, but he’s carried it with him all of his lives; this same software has existed for hundreds of years, so why shouldn’t it exist for hundred years (four hundred years) more to come?

(“Same software, different case.”)

So he keeps it.

(He tolerates the active calculation, this one small piece of a past he desperately wants to disown, but only because the subroutine is practically unnoticeable – and therefore easily ignorable. The rest of the software is of more importance to him anyway; a bridge to The Doctors that came before, if nothing else.)

The new case he constructs is simple, practical and understated. When he runs a calibration test on the sonic, the cool blue light casts a serene glow that eases something in his chest.

-

It takes a long, long time to clean up most of the wreckage throughout the TARDIS. He doesn’t keep track of precisely how much time passes, but comparing to the three days he spent on the console room it feels like three years.

The TARDIS is war damaged and will carry these battle wounds for eternity. (It’s his fault. How can he ever forgive himself for hurting her like this?) Every wreck he finds prompts a new dose of guilt. In an attempt to spare him grief, she tries to fix some of the damage herself. He tries to convince her to conserve her energy, but she’s always been charmingly stubborn.

Most of the repairs get done without major incident. The worse mishap occurs in the library, which has taken the brunt of the malfunction with the architectural configuration system. The whole room has twisted into a labyrinth that has at least seventeen separate gravity sources, some competing against each other, and the air is thick with floating books. While he’s balanced on a step ladder, attempting to reaffix one end of a shelf with his sonic, the gravity well he’s in abruptly reverses polarity – making behind him down. He drops with a sharp cry in an avalanche of books and loose boards. He’s only in freefall for a few seconds until he crosses into the path of another gravity field, which send him and everything else crashing into an adjacent bookshelf that becomes the new floor.

(The sudden disorientation incites an anxiety attack. For a handful of terrifying seconds, he thinks he’s still at the site of the Cruciform wasteland, buried by bodies, not books. This body can’t withstand this malleable environment; he will be unmade! And as he gasps shallowly, he cannot fathom whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.)

A high-pitched alarm screeches at him continuously until he digs himself up out of the pile of books smothering him. He knows intellectually that the TARDIS is doing the only thing she can to get his attention, to show her concern, but his emotions are frayed (a kaleidoscope of colour that competes for his focus) and he shouts at her not to coddle him instead. The alarm cuts out and the lights dim slightly, as if she’s holding her breath.

(He feels like a monster. She’s just as traumatised from the War as he is. He’s being unfair to her, unfair to the both of them.)

He curls up against one of the bookcases, trembling. He tells her he’s sorry, tells her over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. She hums quietly, the noise soothing, but he cannot stop apologising until his voice gives out.

-

Even when the bulk of the aesthetic work is complete there’s still plenty of other impairments he has to tend to. He could spend the rest of eternity finding all of her aches and injuries. But eventually he forces himself to look beyond the TARDIS, to see whether the universe is still there. (After all, that’s why billions of people were killed, to save everyone else.) He finds that time and space do still exist, filled with so many still breathing lifeforms, and he is thankful for this. (At least there are survivors. Does that make what happened worth it? How can anything be worth the horror of what he did?)

But there is still cause for dismay. The universe is not what it was before.

(A stray thought flickers through his mind, a memory he inherits from another; recently regenerated and struggling with his identity he wonders whether ‘before’ had always been such a big word? Or does it only become so when it is paired with ‘after,’ when death lies between the two?)

The universe was damaged by the Time War. It’s slowly healing, now that the War has ended, but the fabric of it has been forever changed. And there will always be scars. But at least there are no more Daleks.

(But there are also no more Time Lords either. No Gallifrey.)

-

Eventually he decides to leave the safety of his TARDIS, set foot into the universe again. (He knows that this decision is mainly an attempt to punish himself but he has to believe that it’s also a chance to find atonement.) He programs a set of coordinates into the TARDIS and they fly through the time vortex. She holds together, making the flight just as well as she would have on a good day in the past. (A bronze swirl of warmth fills him to burst.) He is so very proud of her.

It takes him over five minutes to work up the nerve to open the door and step outside. What he finds makes him feel numb.

The Consensio nebula is dead. The particles of dust suspended in the atmosphere are colourless, burnt out and motionless. Once, it used to be a vision of harmony, hues of light refracting off of each other as they danced. Now there is nothing.

He approaches the cliff edge and stares at the graveyard of ash that lies in front of him. (He is seized with a sudden urge to pitch himself off the edge into the abyss below. The only reason he doesn’t is because he can’t bear the thought of the TARDIS left here alone, to become another dusty inert feature of this landscape.) He struggles to hold back a flood of bitter tears.

(They had been children when they first came here. So young and such good friends, with the whole universe at their fingers. They spent the night camped out under these stars, not caring how much trouble they were going to be in the next day. Over the years they’ve both made periodic visits to this nebula together. When they had been children, they had promised each other that their friendship was like the nebula; waxing or waning, it would always continue. But there is no more colour here. The nebula has been destroyed by the Time War, just like The Master.)

It hits him all at once, as though it’s the first time he’s realising it. (In a way, it is. It’s the first time he’s had to face this truth in this body, with his own emotional responses.) The Master is dead, and this time, he’s never coming back.

He turns his back on the nebula. In doing so, he finds himself looking at the exterior of the TARDIS for the first time since they both regenerated. She has retained her Police Box visage, of course. This one looks old and worn, and yet still beautiful. But it’s the shade of blue that holds his attention most.

She is sorrow.

(He tells himself that this is not his fault. But if it is not then that leaves an even bigger question; has she always been sorrow? And if so, has he failed her for not being able to ease this?)

He swallows hard, blinks rapidly as he makes his way back towards her.

-

He makes himself a cup of tea. He doesn’t drink it. As he stares at it, he reflects on the last cup of tea he had shared with The Master, when The Master had called him Doctor and meant it. He remembers how it felt to be recognised as The Doctor, to be known and acknowledged.

(He Named himself The Doctor – for the TARDIS, as a promise to her – but how can he know if this is really true?)

He wants validation.

(But with The Master lost, who else can he ask?)

-

When the Time War ended, a new seal was laid down upon Time to replace the one that was broken at the onset on the conflict. (He suspects that The Moment was responsible for this, even if he doesn’t know or remember how.) When The Moment was done and the War over, the Laws of Time had been reasserted. He knows this instinctually, his temporal sense as a Time Lord as involuntary as his lungs taking in air as he breathes, his hearts pumping blood as they beat.

But the First Rule has always been a Law unto its self.

(He knows he shouldn’t try to do this. He knows that there will be consequences if he’s successful. But he finds that he doesn’t care.)

He goes searching through Time for The Doctors.

(He wants to meet them. He wants to meet The Doctors, to meet…his other selves. He wants to know if they will consider him a Doctor too.)

He is very, very careful. (Time is too vulnerable now for him to accidently splice open his own time stream.) He spends hours on the calculations, then runs an intensive (and slightly invasive) scan on his timeline for any recent inconsistencies within his memory patterns. He ends up with eight potential co-ordinates – presumably one for each past Doctor.

(Is he really going to do this?)

“I am The Doctor.” (But the words still have no colour to them.)

(Yes, he really is going to do this.)

-

The first co-ordinate finds him in a crowd of people, the air thick with excitement, a lavender haze of anticipation filling the city streets. He searches the sea of faces intently for any of his other selves and he’s so focused on finding a familiar face that he doesn’t realise where he is until the shots ring out and everyone starts screaming.

November 22, 1963. Dallas, Texas.

The influence of the Nemesis comet must have affected his trajectory when he landed. He returns to his TARDIS, makes an adjustment to account for the presence of validium, and emerges in Shoreditch, London. It’s still November twenty second, but its early morning now. He starts walking down the streets, heading for where he knows an earlier TARDIS is parked; a junkyard on Totter’s Lane. A group of young students in uniform pass him, probably on their way to school.

He falters. Just like Susan would be.

(His hearts ache with sudden memories. Susan. Ian and Barbara. Oh, how he has missed them.)

He’s lost in thoughts of the past until he runs into a wall.

Not a physical wall; it’s an intangible distortion warping both space and time. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He recoils from it. Every one of his senses is lit up (blinking mauve, warning against danger) and his head feels like it’s going to split open. He takes a couple more steps back and pinches the bridge of his nose until the throbbing lessens. Then he reassesses the situation.

(He’s never gone looking for his other selves before. Six was already being affected by the fluctuations in Two’s timestream when he chose to go after him. And the incidents with Omega and the Death Zone were orchestrated by the Council, who had access to the Untempered Schism and the Eye of Harmony. He’s long accepted the fact that the First Rule shouldn’t be broken, but he’s never considered whether that means it CANNOT be broken, certain circumstances excluded.)

He grits his teeth and strides forwards.

The world turns to ash around him. (He cannot breathe properly.) His head feels foggy and stuffy but he presses through it, one foot in front of the other until it clears.

He frowns. He’s on a street three blocks from where he started.

He keeps trying, without success. The recursive occlusion won’t let him enter the space around the junkyard, it keeps spitting him out of the distortion. He doesn’t know how long he tries to get through. Eventually though a kind policeman takes his arm and starts escorting him away, concerned that his wooziness means he requires medical attention. He manages to convince the policeman that he’s fine, reassuring him that he’s a Doctor and that he just needs to rest a moment. He is sitting on the curb, resting his forehead on his knees as the policeman rubs his back soothing, when he hears the distant sound of the TARDIS dematerialising, departing from the junkyard with four passengers. He cannot help but smile fondly.

-

Despite his initial failure, he decides to persist with the other co-ordinates. Maybe all he needs is practise.

He tries the island of Krakatoa in Eighteen Eighty Three. Nearby, Two, Jamie, Ben, and Polly are trying to save a group of villagers from the attacking Primords, even as the volcanic explosion draws ever closer. But he cannot cross into the village.

He arrives on Karfel and immediately his head feels like it’s going to split open. He stumbles through the leisure garden until he collapses. The plants surrounding him sing in soothing whispers until he can push past the pain to get his feet back under him. But by then Three and Jo have already dealt with the unethical scientist Megelen, and his opportunity has past.

He runs through catacombs in fifteenth century Italy, dodging guards and cult worshipers alike. The influence of the Mandragora Helix grapples at San Martino. Four and Sarah are also running around these tunnels, but he doesn’t cross paths with either of them.

He nearly drowns in a swamp on the planet Mebesi. He knows it was dangerous to come here, to this cesspool that eats despair, but his desire to find Five outweighs any sense of self-preservation he may have. He clings to the vine he’s using as an anchor, trying to pull himself from the ooze. At one point he hears Turlough shout for his Doctor, but his own shouts for them go unheard.

He hits another recursive occlusion on the planet Lakara, where a temporal laboratory has just been destroyed in an unbridled rage. The aging dictator has been draining artron energy from time travellers, stealing their life force to increase her own. He actually catches sight of Six through the occlusion, the colours of his jacket a blinding beacon. But Six, lost to the tunnel vision of his anger and pending regeneration, doesn’t see him.

He starts hyperventilating, standing in a narrow corridor on the planet Segonax. He’s in the Psychic Circus and at the other end of the corridor is a hall of mirrors. (He can’t go in there.) So he stays where he is, hopes that if he concentrates hard enough that Seven will sense him and come looking. Seven, who of all the others before, wished for a meeting. But Seven never comes. Between the immediate danger of the Gods of Ragnarok and the shadowing menace of Fenric, his own presence is too subtle and easily dismissed.

He’s desperate enough that he almost ditches the Daniels family to chase after Eight in Southampton. But the youngest of their four children won’t stop coughing and he’s a Doctor. The eldest daughter plays chess with him and something in her demeanour that reminds him of the Battle Queen Morgaine. It’s April, Nineteen Twelve. Morgaine may be sleeping beneath sheets of ice, but the Daniels family cancel their trip and the Titanic sails without them. He cannot regret his decision.

-

Back in the TARDIS with eight counts of failure, he automatically goes to start running a second scan, determined to try again. But the TARDIS promptly shuts down all the systems he needs to do so. He could override the command. But if he forces things it will put undue stress on the TARDIS and he isn’t willing to risk her safety for his own foolish needs.

“What am I supposed to do?” He laments despondently.

-

He stands on the sidewalk across the street from them, watching as they put shopping into their car. As Doris gets into the passenger side, The Brigadier looks up and sees him. The man starts in surprise; it’s clear that he doesn’t recognise this face. He takes a step forward as though to cross over to him, but he shakes his head. The Brigadier pauses and frowns, that particular frown that puts wrinkles in his brow and usually prompts a lecture about reckless behaviour. But when the frown shifts into the more serious a-man-has-died-on-my-watch frown, he knows The Brigadier has realised that he is the incarnation after the man who left a suicide letter and went into a War prepared to die.

(“I just want to know that you’ll LIVE with your choice.”)

(He’s alive. Isn’t that enough?)

The Brigadier mouths ‘Doctor?’ And even though it’s a question, (even though The Brigadier had once asked the Nameless Warrior the same question), he takes it for what it is. (He’s too selfish, too desperate to leave the offered Title unacknowledged.) He nods once and then turns on his heel and disappears back into the crowd.

-

(He’s terrified that even if he ever does cross paths with any previous Doctors, that they won’t see any of themselves in him. Maybe it’s best that they never meet. Perhaps he can make his Title work for him, even if he still doubts whether his carries the same nuances as theirs.)

-

He begins travelling again. Despite all of his jagged edges (sapphires cuts of remorse brushed with several mahogany coatings of self-loathing) he tries to do his best. He tries to be a good man. (To be a Doctor worthy of the Title.) He saves one or two lives here and there, never being thanked and easily forgotten. He comes across mercenaries who are turning a profit of the destruction the War left behind and he dismantles (destroys) their operations. He performs an accelerated time experiment to turn a dead galaxy into a globular cluster of stars, just to prove to himself that new life can still be found.

Then he stumbles across a tyrant ruling over a slavery encampment on a planet of sand. Despite its colour, there is no tolerance here. None of the imprisoned are older than late adolescence; the complexion of the workers is a pasty (resigned) beige and there are discarded corpses littered everywhere. The sovereign king laughs at his horror. When he detonates the main refinery, the sovereign king retaliates by detonating the implant on every worker’s heart. And when the sovereign king falls into the distillery, clinging to the internal mechanism and screaming for rescue as the molten liquid rises, he merely stands there and explains what the Nuremberg Defence is, and why it isn’t a defence at all. This man had justified his rule across three splintered timelines – before, during, and after the Time War – by proclaiming he was merely following the orders of his supposed Dalek masters. Whether or not this was true of the first two, this latter and current streak of sadism was his alone. So he stands witness as the sovereign king is consumed by the precious material he craved; more valuable than gold, (as white as death,) and as thick as blood.

He staggers back to his TARDIS in a numb haze.

(He hasn’t had a really Bad Day like this since his regeneration.)

The sight of all those dead children is seared onto the inside of his eyelids. (Long dead corpses abandoned to the dust and heat. Chests bursting as an explosion punches out from within them. Terrified screams ring in his ears.) He sinks to the floor, curls up on himself and moans. (Gallifrey is eaten away by the flames; the children are screaming. The children are screaming.) He couldn’t save any of the children. (What use is it, being a Doctor, if children still die?)

“Take me home,” he demands (begs) of the TARDIS. (He wants to crawl away and die.) The engines kick in and the TARDIS takes flight.

He unfurls himself when they land, dragging himself up onto his feet and stalking across the room. (He wants to stand there and stare at the absence of Gallifrey, knowing that its fate is more than what he deserves.) He throws open the doors.

He’s on Earth.

There is life and colour and sound filling the street as people walk back and forth. A young woman laughs into her phone; a child eats a vanilla ice-cream; an old man buys a newspaper and complains about his arthritis. Birds sing overhead; a bus pulls up to the curb with a heavy hiss; light glints off of the shop windows. A baby cries and her father soothes her softly. A man kisses his girlfriend on the corner of her mouth, their hands intertwined.

He curls one hand in his jacket, (grounding himself in the safety of the black fabric,) his other hand fumbles until it’s pressed against the smooth wood of the TARDIS door. He stares out at the humans, living their lives. Breathing, smiling. The tension bleeds out of his frame.

(Gallifrey is gone, but the Earth is still here. The Earth, which he chose to claim as his home long ago. This beautiful, fantastic planet, with its amazing human beings.)

“Thank you.”

The TARDIS console dings as it detects an alien power source. He frowns, turning and heading back over to the console to inspect the reading. He recognises the power signature as Auton. Whatever they’re doing on Earth cannot be good. He drudges up a portable energy detector and programs it to track the relays operating on the frequency the Nestene Consciousness emits.

Then he sets out to investigate.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -
> 
> Am I implying that The Rani may have survived, escaping the destruction of Gallifrey by using The Cruciform to completely remake her biology? *Gazes off into the distance, dramatically* Who knows.
> 
> The movie ‘Labyrinth’ (1986) shows a room based on the lithograph print ‘Relativity’ by the Dutch painter M. C. Escher. This is how I pictured the state of the library, but lined with bookshelves.
> 
> Fun fact: the official colour of the TARDIS is listed as Pantone 2955C Blue.
> 
> Some context for Nine’s attempted Rule-Breaking:  
> ~ As per ‘Rose’ it’s stated that Nine was present at JFK’s assassination in 1963; with the Daniels family at the launch of the Titanic; and at Krakatoa in 1883. In ‘Inferno’ Three referenced having witnessed the Krakatoa eruption and hearing the Primords scream; Seven implied in ‘Silver Nemesis’ that JFK’s assassination was influenced by the Nemesis comet; and the first episode of Doctor Who (‘An Unearthly Child’) was broadcast on November 23, 1963.  
> ~ In both ‘Timelash’ (Sixth Doctor) and ‘Death of The Doctor’ (Sarah Jane Adventures) there are references that Three and Jo visited the planet Karfel. Four and Sarah are in San Martino, Italy, 1492 in ‘The Masque of Mandragora’; Seven and Ace are at the Psychic Circus in ‘The Greatest Show in the Galaxy.’  
> ~ Planets Mebesi and Lakara are my own contribution; Five and Turlough are on their own, between episodes ‘Resurrection of The Daleks’ and ‘Planet of Fire’; Six has had his trial but is yet to meet Mel.
> 
> The Nuremberg Defence (originating from the German phrase ‘Befehl ist Befehl’ – ‘an order is an order’) is a legal defence to not be held accountable for actions that were ordered by a superior. During the Nuremberg trials in 1945-1946 in the aftermath of the atrocities committed by Nazi Germany, the London Tribunal deemed this defence was not enough to escape punishment.
> 
> Some dialogue, text and information taken from a plethora of New Who episodes including; Rose; and The Day of The Doctor; as well as a plethora of Classic Who episodes; and others are referenced because I am a Doctor Who sponge.
> 
> -


End file.
